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FRONTIER   BALLADS 


Also  by  Mr.  Hanson 


With  Sully  Into  the  Sioux  Lands 

Illustrated  by  John  W.  Norton. 

Crown  8vo $1.50 

The  Conquest  of  the  Missouri 

Profusely  Illustrated.     Third  edition. 
Large  8vo Net  $2.00 


A.  C.  McCLURG   &   CO.,  Publishers 


E>A 

fy    JOSEPH   MILLS  HANSON 


With  Pictures  in  Color 

and  Other  Drawings  by 

MAYNARD  DIXON 


on  ic  AGO 

.M^GLURG 
131O 


COPYRIGHT 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1910 

Published  October  15,  1910 


DEDICATED    TO    MY   WIFE 
FRANCES  LEE  HANSON 


CONTENTS 

SOLDIER    SONGS  Page 

Dakota  Militia .15 

The  Girl  of  the  Yankton  Stockade 18 

The  Ballad  of  Sergeant  Ross 21 

The  Springfield  Calibre  Fifty 25 

A  Garrison  Christmas  .         .         .         .         .         .         .28 

Troop  Horses            .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  31 

\   A  Khaki  Kick 35 

Sergeant  Noonan  Explains        ......  38 

Laramie  Trail       ......                   .         .  40 

PRAIRIE  SONGS 

The  Call  of  the  Wind 45 

The  Fur  Traders 46 

Cowboy  Song 52 

Christmas  Eve  at  Kimball        ......  54 

A  Lament 58 

Jesus  Garcia     .........  60 

A  Christmas  Letter      ........  66 

The  Coyoteville  Peace  Meeting         .....  69 

The  Song  of  the  Winchester 71 

Prairie  Fire 73 

RIVER  SONGS 

The  Missouri 77 

The  Old  Carry 81 

Jake  Dale 83 

The  Engineer  of  the  "Golden  Hind"        ....  87 

The  "Pauline" 89 

Afterglow 92 


N 


MY  CREED 

OW,  this  is  the  simple,  living  faith  of  a  humble  heart  and  mind, 
Drunk  up  from  the  storm-brewed  Western  streams,  breathed  in 

with  the  prairie  wind. 
My  paints  are  crude  and  my  pictures  rude,  but  if  some  worth 

they  show 
Which  those  may  see  who  have  thoughts  as  free,  the  rest  may 

let  them  go. 

I  hold  that  the  things  which  make  earth  good  may  work  most 

harm  in  use 

If  the  wit  of  men  heed  not  the  line  'twixt  temperance  and  abuse, 
For  speech  or  mood,  or  drink  or  food  may  be  a  curse  at  will, 
Though,  rightly  weighed,  they  only  aid  the  cup  of  life  to  fill. 

I  hold  that  the  silent  sea  and  plain,  the  mountain,  wood,  and 

down, 
Are  better  haunts  for  the  feet  of  men  than  the  streets  of  the 

roaring  town, 
And  that  those  who  tread  for  the  price  of  bread  in  the  thronging 

hives  of  toil 
Will  stronger  grow  with  the  more  they  know  of  the  kiss  of  the 

virgin  soil. 

I  hold  that  our  sons  should  learn  to  love,  not  gods  of  gold  and 

greed, 
But  the  virile  men  of  brain  and  brawn  who  served  our  country's 

need, 
And  should  more  delight  in  a  clean-cut  fight,  stout  blade  and 

courage  whole, 
That  the  morbid  skill  of  a  critic's  drill  in  the  core  of  a  sin-sick 

soul. 

n 


Three  stars  that  shine  on  the  trail  of  life  can  make  man's  path 
way  bright, 

And  one  is  the  strength  of  the  living  God,  that  stands  in  his 
heart  upright, 

And  one  is  a  noble  woman's  love,  on  which  his  heart  may  lean, 

And  one  is  the  sight  of  his  country's  flag,  to  keep  his  courage 
keen. 

Who  knows  the  balm  of  the  summer's  calm  or  the  chords  of  the 

blizzard's  hymn 

And  finds  not  God  in  blast  and  breeze,  his  sense  is  strangely  dim, 
For  he  whose  ear  is  attuned  can  hear  the  very  planets  sing 
That  the  soul  of  man,  by  a  God-wrought  plan,   is  the  heir  of 

creation's  King. 

Who  feels  the  joy  of  the  golden  days  with  her  who  shares  his 

mood 
In  the  sun-washed  wastes  of  the  prairie  hills  or  the  breaks  of 

the  tangled  wood; 
Who  has  won  the  fate  of  a  steel-true  mate,  real  comrade,  friend 

and  wife, 
He  tastes  the  kiss  of  Elysian  bliss  in  instant,  earthly  life. 

Who  sees  the  gleam  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  on  land  or  sea 

displayed, 
Atilt  in  the  reek  of  the  battle-smoke  or  aloft  o'er  the  marts  of 

trade  — 
Unless  his  veins  are  the  sluggish  drains  for  the  blood  of  a  craven 

race. — 
He  will  gain  new  life  for  a  better  strife,  whatever  the  odds  he 

face. 

So  that  is  the  rede  and  the  homely  creed  of  one  who  has  spelled 

it  forth 
In  the  rivers'  sweep  and  the  splendors  deep  of  the  stars  of  the 

hardy   North ; 
To  some,  I  ween,  it  may  seem  but  mean;  too  short,  too  blunt, 

too  plain, 
But  if  those  I  touch  who  have  felt  as  much,  it  will  not  have  been 

in  vain. 

12 


I 
SOLDIER  SONGS 


N 


I 

SOLDIER  SONGS 

DAKOTA  MILITIA 
(1862) 

O  "scare-heads"  in  big  city  papers, 
No  "puffs"  in  Department  reports, 

No  pictures  by  "special  staff  artists" 
Of  assaults  on  impregnable  forts; 

We  are  far  from  the  war-vexed  Potomac, 
Our  fights  are  too  small  to  make  news ; 

We  are  merely  Dakota  militia, 

Patrolling  the  frontier  for  Sioux. 

Three  hundred-odd  "empire  builders," 

Gathered  in  from  three  hundred-odd  claims, 

Far  scattered  across  the  wide  prairies 

From  Pierre  to  the  mouth  of  the  James. 

Perhaps  they  seemed  little  or  nothing, 
Our  losses,  our  toil,  and  our  pain, 

The  rush  of  the  war  ponies,  tearing 

Through  cornfields  and  yellowing  grain ; 

The  whoop  of  the  hostile  at  midnight, 

The  glare  of  the  flaming  log  shacks, 

A  beacon  of  hate  and  destruction 

As  we  fled,  with  the  foe  at  our  backs ; 

Our  women  and  young  driven,  weeping, 

Exhausted,  half-naked,  afraid, 
To  the  refugee  huts  of  Vermillion 

Or  the  sun-smitten  Yankton  stockade. 

15 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Small  things  to  a  Nation  embattled, 

But  great  to  the  pioneer  band 
Who  are  blazing  the  roads  of  the  future 

Through  the  wastes  of  a  wilderness  land. 

We  plod  past  the  desolate  coulees 

In  the  sweltering  afternoon  heat, 
While  the  far  ridges  shine  in  a  waving  blue  line 

Where  the  earth  and  the  brazen  sky  meet. 

No  sound  save  the  hoofs  of  the  column 

As  they  swish  through  the  dry  prairie  grass, 

No  life  anywhere  save  a  hawk,  high  in  air, 
Gazing  down  as  we  wearily  pass. 

There  is  never  a  foe  we  may  grapple 

In  the  heat  of  a  steel-clashing  fray, 
For  the  quarry  we  hunt  is  a  shadow  in  front 

That  flits,  and  comes  never  to  bay ; 

A  feather  of  smoke  to  the  zenith, 

The  print  of  a  hoof  in  the  sod, 
A  shot  from  the  grass  where  the  far  flankers  pass 

Sending  one  more  poor  comrade  to  God. 

Would  we  rest  when  the  day's  work  is  over 
And  the  stars  twinkle  out  in  the  sky? 

There  is  double  patrol  round  the  lean  water-hole 
And  the  picketed  horses  hard  by. 

Breast-down  in  the  rain-rutted  gully, 

With  muskets  clutched  close  in  our  hands, 

The  hours  of  night  drag  their  heavy-winged  flight 
Like  Eternity's  slow  falling  sands. 

While  the  Great  Dipper,  pinned  to  the  Pole  Star, 
Swings  low  in  the  dome  of  the  North 

And,  faint  through  the  dark,  sounds  the  prairie  wolf's  bark 
Or  a  snake  from  the  weeds  rustles  forth. 

16 


SOLDIER       SONGS 


And  the  darkness  that  chokes  like  a  vapor 

Is  thronged  with  the  visions  which  come 

Of  children  and  wife  and  the  dear  things  of  life 
That  peopled  the  lost  cabin  home. 

Till  the  East  flushes  red  with  the  morning 

And  the  dawn-wind  springs  fresh  o'er  the  plain, 

And  the  reveille's  note  from  the  bugle's  clear  throat 
Calls  us  up  to  our  labors  again. 

We  were  not  in  the  fight  at  Antietam, 

We  never  have  seen  Wilson's  Creek, 
We  were  guiding  our  trains  over  Iowa's  plains 

While  the  shells  at  Manassas  fell  thick, 

But  we're  waging  a  war  for  a  new  land 

As  the  East  wages  war  for  the  old, 
That  the  mountains  and  plains  of  the  red  man's  domains 

May  be  brought  to   Columbia's  fold, 

And  though  only  a  squad  of  militia 

That  the  armies  back  East  never  knew, 

We  are  playing  a  game  which  is  largely  the  same 
With  the  truculent,  turbulent  Sioux. 


17 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


Y 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  YANKTON  STOCKADE 

ES,  it's  pretty,  this  town.     And  it's  always  been  so; 

We  pioneers  picked  it  for  beauty,  you  know. 

See  the  far-rolling  bluffs;  mark  the  trees,  how  they  hide 

All  its  streets,  and,  beyond,  the  Missouri,  bank-wide, 

Swinging  down  through  the  bottoms.     Up  here  on  the  height 

Is  the  college.     Eh,  sightly  location?     You're  right! 

It  has  grown,  you  may  guess,  since  I've  been  here;  but  still 
It  is  forty-five  years  since  I  looked  from  this  hill 
One  morning,  and  saw  in  the  stockade  down  there 
Our  women  and  children  all  gathered  at  prayer, 
While  we,  their  defenders,  with  muskets  in  rest 
Lay  waiting  the  Sioux  coming  out  of  the  West. 

18 


SOLDIER        SONG; 

They  had  swept  Minnesota  with  bullet  and  brand 

Till  her  borders  lay  waste  as  a  desert  of  sand, 

When  we  in  Dakota  awakened  to  find 

That  the  red  flood  had  risen  and  left  us  behind. 

Then  we  rallied  to  fight  them, —  Sioux,  Sissetons,  all 

Who  had  ravaged  unchecked  to  the  gates  of  Saint  Paul. 

Is  it  strange,  do  you  think,  that  the  women  took  fright 
That  morning,  and  prayed;  that  men,  even,  turned  white 
When  over  the  ridge  where  the  college  now  looms 
We  caught  the  first  glitter  of  lances  and  plumes 
And  heard  the  dull  trample  of  hoofs  drawing  nigh, 
Like  the  rumble  of  thunder  low  down  in  the  sky? 

Such  sounds  wrench  the  nerves  when  there's  little  to  see ; 
It  seemed  madness  to  stay,  it  was  ruin  to  flee. 
But,  handsome  and  fearless  as   Anthony  Wayne, 
Our  captain,  Frank  Ziebach,  kept  hold  on  the  rein, 
Like  a  bugle  his  voice  made  us  stiffen  and  thrill  — 
"Stand  steady,  boys,  steady!     And  fire  to  kill!" 

So  the  most  of  us  stayed.     But  when  dangers  begin 
You  will  always  find  some  who  are  yellow  within. 
We  had  a  few  such,  who  concluded  to  steer 
For  the  wagon-train,  parked  in  the  centre  and  rear. 
They  didn't  stay  long!     But  you've  heard,  I  dare  say, 
Of  the  girl  who  discouraged  their  running  away. 

What,  no?     Never  heard  of  Miss  Edgar?    Why,  sir, 

Dakota  went  wild  with  the  praises  of  her! 

As  sweet  as  a  hollyhock,  slender  and  tall, 

And  brave  as  the  sturdiest  man  of  us  all. 

By  George,  sir,  a  heroine,  that's  what  she  made, 

When  her  spirit  blazed  out  in  the  Yankton  stockade ! 

The  women  were  sobbing,  for  every  one  knew 

She  must  blow  out  her  brains  if  the  redskins  broke  through, 

When  into  their  midst,  fairly  gasping  with  fright, 

Came  the  panic-struck  hounds  who  had  fled  from  the  fight. 

They  trampled  the  weak  in  their  blind,  brutal  stride, 

Made  straight  for  the  wagons  and  vanished  inside. 

19 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Then  up  rose  Miss  Edgar  in  anger  and  haste 
And  grasped  the  revolver  that  hung  at  her  waist; 
She  walked  to  the  wagon  which  nearest  her  lay, 
She  wrenched  at  the  back-flap  and  tore  it  away, 
Then  aiming  her  gun  at  the  fellow  beneath 
She  held  it  point-blank  to  his  chattering  teeth. 

"Go  back  to  your  duty,"'  she  cried,  "with  the  men ! 
Go  back,  or  you'll  never  see  sunrise  again! 
Do  you  think,  because  only  the  women  are  here, 
You  can  skulk  behind  skirts  with  your  dastardly  fear? 
Get  out  on  the  ground.    Take  your  gun.    About,  face ! 
And  don't  look  around  till  you're  back  in  your  place!" 

Well,  he  minded ;  what's  more,  all  the  others  did,  too. 
That  girl  cleared  the  camp  of  the  whole  scurvy  crew, 
For  a  pistol-point,  hovering  under  his  nose, 
Was  an  argument  none  of  them  cared  to  oppose. 
Yet  so  modest  she  was  that  she  colored  with  shame 
When  the  boys  on  the  line  began  cheering  her  name ! 

Well,  that's  all ;  just  an  echo  of  old  border  strife 

When  the  sights  on  your  gun  were  the  guide-posts  of  life. 

Harsh  times  breed  strong  souls,  by  eternal  decree, 

Who  can  breast  them  and  win — but  it's  always  struck  me 

That  the  Lord  did  an  extra  good  job  when  He  made 

Miss  Edgar,  the  girl  of  the  Yankton  stockade. 


20 


J-oV-'-X.          *  \~\fs  1 

—  -•—  4UQt— Ttxrm  , 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SERGEANT  ROSS 


T 


HE  south  wind's  up  at  the  break  of  dawn 
From  the  dun  Missouri's  breast, 

It  has  tossed  the  grass  of  the  Council  Hill 
And  wakened  the  flames  on  its  crest; 

The  flames  of  the  sentry  fires  bright, 

Ablaze  on  the  prairies  pale, 
Where  sixty  men  of  the  Frontier  Corps 

Are  guarding  the  Government  Trail. 

A  rattle  of  hoofs  from  the  northern  hills, 
A  steed  with  a  sweat-wrung  hide 

And  Olaf  Draim,  of  the  Peska  Claim, 
Swings  off  at  the  captain's  side. 

A  limb  of  the  sturdy  Swedes  is  he, 

Marauders  in  days  of  old, 
But  the  swart  of  his  face  is  stricken  white 

And  the  grip  of  his  hand  is  cold. 

21 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

"Now,  hark  ye,  men  of  the  Frontier  Corps, 

I  ride  from  the  Beaver  Creek, 
Where  I  saw  a  sight  at  the  grim  midnight 

That  might  turn  a  strong  man  weak. 

"Chief  Black  Bear's  out  from  the  Crow  Creek  lands, 
The  buzzards  his  track  have  showed ; 

Last  eve  he  pillaged  at  Old  Fort  James, 
To-day  on  the  Firesteel  road, 

"And  Corporal  Stowe.  of  the  Frontier  Corps, 

On  furlough  to  reap  his  grain, 
At  the  Peska  stage-house  lieth  dead 

With  his  wife  and  his  children  twain." 

Then  up  and  spoke  First  Sergeant  Ross, 
Who  had  bunked  with  Corporal  Stowe : 

"By  the  glory  of  God,  they  shall  pay  in  blood 
The  debt  of  that  dastard  blow! 

"Ye  know  the  path  to  the  Crow  Creek  lands ; 

It  is  sown  with  this  spawn  of  hell, 
And  there's  deep  ravine  and  there's  plum-hedge  green 

To  shelter  a  foeman  well. 

"Now,  who  of  my  comrades  mounts  with  me 
For  a  murdered  mess-mate's  wrong, 

That  the  Sioux  who  rides  with  those  scalps  at  his  side 
May  swing  from  a  hempen  thong?" 

Of  three-score  men  there  were  only  ten 

Would  gird  for  that  chase  of  death. 
Quoth  Ross :     "As  ye  please.     For  the  cur,  his  fleas, 

But  men  for  the  rifle's  breath." 

They  have  tightened  cinches  and  passed  the  lines 
Ere  the  lowland  mists  have  flown; 

The  men  are  astride  of  the  squadron's  best, 
And  Ross,  of  the  Captain's  roan. 

22 


SOLDIER       SONGS 

They  ride  till  the  crickets  have  sought  the  shade ; 

They  ride  till  the  sun-motes  glance; 
And  they  have  espied  on  a  far  hillside 

The  whirl  of  the  Sioux  scalp-dance. 

Then  it's  up  past  the  smouldering  stage-house  barn 

And  out  by  the  well-curb's  marge ; 
The  Sioux  are  a-leap  for  the  tether-ropes :  — 

"Revolvers!      Guide   centre!      Charge!" 

The  Sioux,  they  flee  like  a  wild  wolf-pack 

At  the  flick  of  the  shot-tossed  sod, 
Six  braves  have  lurched  to  the  fore  fetlocks 

And  two  of  the  Sergeant's  squad. 

But  Ross  has  tightened  his  sabre-belt 

And  given  the  roan  his  head, 
And  set  his  pace  for  a  single  chase, 

A  furlong's  length  ahead. 

He  has  set  his  pace  for  the  chief,  Black  Bear, 
Who  shrinks  from  a  strong  man's  strife 

But  flaunts  in  the  air  the  long,  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  the  Corporal's  wife. 

The  eight,  they  follow  like  swirled  snow-spume, 

A-drive  o'er  an  ice-bound  bar, 
But  the  redskin's  track  is  the  dim  cloud-wrack 

That  streams  in  the  sky  afar. 

They  ride  till  the  hearts  of  their  steeds  are  dead 
And  they  gallop  with  lolling  tongues, 

And  the  tramp  of  their  feet  is  a  rhythmic  beat 
To  the  sob  of  their  panting  lungs. 

And  two  are  down  in  a  prairie  draw 

And  three  on  a  chalk-stone  ledge. 
And  three  have  won  to  the  Bon  Homme  Run 

And  stuck  in  the  marsh-land  sedge. 

23 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

But  Black  Bear's  horse  still  holds  the  course, 
Though  her  breath  is  a  thick-drawn  moan, 

And  a  length  behind  is  the  straining  stride 
Of  the  Captain's  steel-limbed  roan. 

The  Sergeant  rides  with  a  loose-thrown  rein, 

Nor  sabre  nor  shoot  will  he 
Till  the  pony  has  pitched  at  a  gopher  mound 

And  flung  her  rider  free; 

And  Ross  has  wrenched  the  knife  from  his  hand 

And  smitten  him  to  the  ground :  — 
"Did  ye  think  to  win  to  the  Bijou  Hills, 

Ye  whelp  of  a  Blackfoot  hound? 

"I  had  riddled  your  carcass  this  six  miles  back 

And  left  ye  to  rot  on  the  plain, 
Had  the  blood  of  the  slaughtered  not  called  on  me 

That  I  hail  ye  to  Peska  again, 

"To  point  this  lesson  to  all  your  tribe, 
That  the  price  of  a  white  man's  soul 

No  longer  goes,  in  the  mart  of  death, 
Unpaid  to  its  last  dark  goal. 

"Wherefore,  that  your  tribesmen  may  see  and  feel 

The  cost  of  a  white  man's  wrong, 
And  to  sweeten  the  rest  of  my  mess-mate's  kin, 

Ye  shall  swing  from  a  hempen  thong." 

He  has  slung  the  chief  to  the  saddle-bow, 

Triced  up  in  his  own  raw-hide, 
And  has  borne  him  back  to  the  stage-house  yard, 

All  bleak  on  the  green  hillside. 

And  they  swung  him  at  dawn  from  a  scaffold  stout, 

As  a  warning  to  all  his  kind, 
To  fatten  the  birds  and  to  scare  the  herds 

And  to  sport  with  the  prairie  wind. 

24 


s    o 


D 


E       R 


O       N 


WAS  wrought  of  walnut  blocks  and  rolled  rod  steel, 

I  was  hammered,  lathed,  and  mandrelled,  stock  and  plate, 

I  was  gauged  and  tested,  bayonet  to  heel, 
Then  shipped  for  service,  twenty  in  a  crate. 

For  I  was  the  calibre  fifty, 

Hi !  —  dough-boys,  you  haven't  forgot 
The  click  of  my  tumblers  shifty 

And  the  kick  of  the  butt  when  I  shot? 
I  was  nothing  too  light  on  your  shoulder, 

You  were  glad  when  you  stacked  me  o'  nights, 
But  I'd  drill  an  Apach' 
From  the  thousand-yard  scratch 

If  you'd  only  hold  straight  on  the  sights — old  sights! 
My  trusty  old  Buffington  sights! 

25 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

In  oil-soaked  chests  at  Watervliet  I've  laid, 

I  have  rusted  in  Vancouver  through  the  rains, 

I  have  scorched  on  Fort  Mohave's  baked  parade, 
And  caked  with  sand  at  Sedgwick  on  the  plains. 

For  I  led  every  march  on  the  border, 

And  I  taught  every  rookie  to  fight; 
Though  he'd  curse  me  in  close  marching  order, 

Lord!  — he'd  hug  me  on  picket  at  night 
As  he  thought  of  the  herd-guard  at  Buford 

When  Sitting  Bull  swooped  within  reach, 
And  'twas  every  man's  life, 
It  was  bullet  and  knife 

Had  my  cartridges  jammed  in  the  breech  —  lock  breech! 
In  my  solid  block,  hammer-lock  breech! 

It  was  I  who  lashed  the  Modocs  from  their  lair 

With  Wheaton  in  the  Tule  Lava  Bed ; 
It  was  I  who  drove  Chief  Joseph  to  despair 

When  I  streaked  the  slopes  of  Bear  Paw  with  his  dead. 

For  I  was  a  proof  most  impressive  — 

The  Springfield  the  infantry  bore  — 
To  redskins  with  spirits  aggressive 

That  peace  is  more  healthful  than  war; 
I  showed  them  on  Musselshell  River 

And  again,  yet  more  plain,  at  Slim  Butte ; 
They  were  plucky  as  sin 
But  they  had  to  come  in 
When  they  found  how  the   Springfield   could  shoot  — 

shoot,  shoot! 
How  my  blue-bottle  barrel  could  shoot! 

I  was  Vengeance  when,  with  Miles  through  trackless  snow, 
The  "fighting  Fifth"  took  toll  for  Ouster's  fall; 

I  was  Justice  when  we  flayed  Geronimo; 

I  was  Mercy  to  the  famished  horde  of  Gall. 


26 


SOLDIER       SONGS 

Oh,  I  was  slow-plodding  and  steady ; 

Not  hot,  like  the  carbine,  to  raid, 
But  when  he  found  trouble  too  ready 

He  was  glad  of  his  big  brother's  aid; 
For  sometimes  he'd  scatter  the  outposts, 

Then  wait,  if  the  foe  proved  too  stout, 
Till,  at  "Front  into  line!" 
It  was  business  of  mine 

While  the  infantry  volleyed  the  rout  —  rout,  rout ! 
While  I  cleared  out  the  village  in  rout! 

But  those  years  have  sped ;  long  silent  are  my  lips ; 

Now  my  sturdy  grandson  rules  the  host  I  knew, 
And  a  drab-clad  army  trusts  his  five-shell  clips 

As  of  old  the  blue-clad  held  my  one  shot  true. 

Still,  my  dotage  takes  solace  of  glory 

From  my  turbulent  youth  and  its  scenes. 
As  vivid  with  valorous  story 

As  the  isles  of  the  far  Philippines. 
Though  the  steel-jacket  smokeless  is  sovereign 
And  I'm  proud  of  my  name  on  his  crest, 
It  was  black  smoke  and  lead 
When  the  skirmish  lines  spread 
With  the  Springfield  that  conquered  the  West — West, 

West! 
With  the  hard-fighting  arm  of  the  West! 


27 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


N 


A  GARRISON   CHRISTMAS 

OW,  all  you  homesick  rookies  who  are  blue  on  Christmas  Day, 
Though  bunked  in  pleasant  barracks,  come  listen  to  my  lay ! 
When  you're  stationed  snug  at  Flagler,  Leavenworth,  or  Hamp 
ton  Roads, 
Where   the    postman   three   times   daily   brings   your   Christmas 

cheer  in  loads, 

What  ground  have  you  for  kicking?    You  would  glorify  your  fate 
If  you'd  been  in  old  Fort  Buford  on  Christmas,  '68! 

Just  a  bunch  of  squatty  cabins  built  of  cottonwoods  and  clay 
With  roofs  of  sod  and  sedge-grass  and  windows  stuffed  with  hay, 
And  when  the  winter  blizzards  came  howling  overhead 
And  we  couldn't  reach  the  timber,  we  burned  our  bunks,  instead, 
While,  camped  around  the  gullies,  lay  five  hundred  Sioux  in  wait: 
That's  how  we  stood  at  Buford  on  Christmas,  '68 ! 

28 


SOLDIER       SONGS 

We  were  out  beyond  the  border  a  thousand  miles  or  more, 

A  wilderness  of  drifting  snows  behind  us  and  before; 

Just  a  bunch  of  U.  S.  doughboys,  hollow-eyed  from  march  and 

fight, 

For  you  bet  we  all  kept  busy  with  Sitting  Bull  in  sight, 
And  our  old  buzz-saw  he'd  captured  never  )et  us  sleep  too  late 
When  he  used  it  as  a  war-drum  around  Christmas,  '68 ! 

I  remember  well  that  morning,  it  was  twenty-four  below, 
With  a  bright  sun  striking  crystals  from   the  endless  fields  of 

snow. 

We  had  finished  with  our  breakfast  of  beans  and  bacon-fat, 
When  someone  cried,  "Look  yonder,  along  the  bluffs!     What's 

that?" 
We  looked,  then  cheered  like  demons.  The  mail-guard,  sure  as 

fate! 
A  welcome  sight,  I  tell  you,  on  Christmas,  '68! 

They  ploughed  in  through  the  snow-drifts  across  the  barrack- 
yard, 

Their  fur  caps  rimmed  with  hoar-frost,  their  horses  breathing 
hard. 

They  bore  orders  from  headquarters,  but  we  soldiers  bade  them 
hail 

Because  they'd  brought  us,  also,  our  sacks  of  Christmas  mail. 

We  had  never  hoped  till  springtime  to  have  that  precious  freight ; 

Was  it  strange  it  raised  our  spirits  on  Christmas,  '68? 

We  crowded  in  a  corner  around  old  Sergeant  "Jack  " — 
A  Santa  Claus  in  chevrons  with  a  mail-bag  for  his  pack  — 
And  with  horse-play,  yells,  and  laughter  we  greeted  every  flight 
As  he  called  the  names  and  fired  them  their  bundles  left  and  right. 
For  some  there  came  no  tokens,  but  they  kept  their  faces  straight 
And  smiled  at  others'  fortune  on  Christmas,  '68. 

"Tom  Flint!"    A  woollen  muffler  from  his  sister  back  in  Maine. 
"James  Bruce!"     His  father'd  sent  him  a  silver  watch  and  chain. 
"Hans  Goetz!"     A  flute  and  song-book  from  the  far-off  Baltic's 
shore. 

29 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

"George  Kent!"    A  velvet  album  from  his  folks  in  Baltimore. 
And  how  we  cheered  the  pictures  from  the  girls  in  every  State 
To  their  sweethearts  in  the  army,  on  Christmas,  '68! 

"Fred  Gray!"     A  sudden  silence  fell  on  that  noisy  place. 
Poor  Fred  lay  in  the  foot-hills  with  the  snow  above  his  face. 
But  his  bunkie  loosed  the  package  of  its  wrappings,  one  by  one  — 
'Twas  a  Bible  from  his  mother,  with  a  blessing  for  her  son. 
And  the  hardest  heart  was  softened  as  we  thought  of  our  dead 

mate 
And  that  lonely,  stricken  mother  on  Christmas,  '68. 

But  the  Sergeant  raised  the  shadow  as  he  shouted,  "Jerry  Clegg !" 

In  hospital  was  Jerry  with  a  bullet  through  his  leg  — 

The  gayest  lad  in  Buford  — -and  we  plunged  out  through  the  drifts 

To  take  his  package  to  him,  forgetting  our  own  gifts. 

'Twas  a  green  silk  vest  from   Dublin,  and,  bedad,  it  sure   was 

great 
To  hear  old  Jerry  chuckle  on  Christmas,  '68! 

Thus  it  went,  with  joke  and  banter — -what  a  romping  time  we 

had! 
The  redskins  in  the  coulees  must  have  thought  we'd  gone  clean 

mad, 

For  they  started  popping  bullets  at  the  sentinels  on  guard 
And  we  had  to  stop  our  nonsense,  and  sortie  good  and  hard. 
But  that  was  daily  routine  —  always  got  it,  soon  or  late  — 
If  we  hadn't,  we'd  felt  lonely  on  Christmas,  '68. 

So  I'm  here  to  tell  you  rookies  who  are  kicking  on  your  lot 
That  you  don't  know  service  hardship  as  we  got  it,  served  up  hot, 
For  the  Philippines  are  easy  and  Hawaii  is  a  snap 
When  compared  to  fighting  Injins  over  all  the  Western  map, 
And,  next  time  you  start  to  growling  when  your  mail's  an  hour 

late, 
Just  recall  the  boys  at  Buford,  on  Christmas,  '68! 


30 


SOLDIER 


SONGS 


TROOP  HORSES 


o 


IH,  you  hear  a  lot  these  days 
Of  the  automatic  ways 
That  the  experts  have  devised  for  spillin'  gore; 
Cycle  squadrons,  motor  vans, 
All  fixed  up  on  modern  plans 
For  a  rapid  transit,  quick  installment  war. 

Now,  that  sort  of  thing  may  go 
When  you  have  a  thoughtful  foe 

Who  will  stick  to  graded  roads  with  all  his  forces, 
But  when  we  were  boys  in  blue, 
Playing  cross-tag  with  the  Sioux, 

We  were  satisfied  to  get  along  on  horses. 

31 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Oh,  the  horses,  sleek  and  stout 

When  the  squadrons  started  out, 

How   they   pranced   along  the   column   as   the  bugles   blew   the 
"Trot!" 

They  might  weaken  and  go  lame, 

But  they'd  never  quit  the  game, 
And  they'd  bring  us  back  in  safety  if  they  weren't  left  to  rot. 

When  there  came  a  sudden  tack 

In  the  travois'  dusty  track 
And  we  knew  the  reds  were  headin'  for  the  timber  and  the  rocks, 

With  the  infantry  and  trains 

Thirty  miles  back   on   the   plains, 
Then  the  horses  were  the  boys  that  got  the  knocks. 

Oh,  the  horses,  roan  and  bay, 

Without   either   corn   or   hay, 
But  a  little  mess  o'  dirty  oats  that  wouldn't  feed  a  colt; 

Who  could  blame  'em  if  they'd  bite 

Through  the  picket-ropes  at  night? 
When  a  man  or  horse  is  hungry,  ain't  he  bound  to  try  and  bolt? 

When  the  trail  got  light  and  thin 

And  the  ridges  walled  us  in, 
And  the  flankers  had  to  scramble  with  their  toes  and  finger-nails, 

While  the  wind  across  the  peaks 

Whipped  the  snow  against  our  cheeks, 
Then  the  horses  had  to  suffer  for  the  badness  of  the  trails. 

Oh,  the  horses,  lean  and  lank, 

With  the  "U.  S."  on  their  flank 
And  a  hundred-weight  of  trumpery  a-dangle  ail  around ; 

How  they  sweated,  side  by  side, 

When  the  stones  began  to  slide 
And  they  couldn't  find  a  footing  or  an  inch  of  solid  ground. 

But  they'd  stand  the  racket  right 
Till  the  redskins  turned  to  fight 
And  up  among  the  fallen  pines  we  heard  their  rifles  crack; 

32 


SOLDIER        SONGS 

Hi!  —  the  three-year  vet'rans  stormed 
While  the  skirmish  lines  were  formed 
At  the  snub-nosed  little  carbines  that  they  couldn't  fire  back! 

And  the  horses,  standing  there 

With  their  noses  in  the  air  — 

How  they  kicked  and  raised  the  devil  down  among  the  tangled 
trees ! 

They  didn't  mind  the  shooting, 

But  they'd  try  to  go  a-scooting 
When  they  got  a  whiff  of  redskin  on  the  chilly  mountain  breeze. 

Still,  I've  not  a  word  of  blame 
For  those  horses,  just  the  same ; 

A  yelping  Injun,  daubed  with  clay,  he  isn't  nice  to  see. 
And  I  ain't  forgot  the  day 
When  my  long-legg'd  Texas  bay 

Wasn't  scared  enough  of  Injuns  not  to  save  my  life  for  me. 

I  was  lyin'  snug  and  low 

In  a  hollow  full  of  snow 

When  the  hostiles   flanked  the  squadron  from  a  wooded  ridge 
near  by, 

And,  of  course,  the  boys,  at  that, 

Sought  a  cooler  place  to  chat, 
But  they  didn't  know  they'd  left  me  with  a  bullet  in  my  thigh! 

But  the     redskins  understood  — 

Bet  your  life  they  always  would !  — 

And  they  came  a-lopin'  downward  for  this  short-hair  scalp  of 
mine, 

While   I   wondered  how   I'd  be 

"Soldier   a  la  fricassee," 
For  I  didn't  know  my  Texan  hadn't  bolted  with  the  line, 

Till  I  heard  a  crunchin'  sound, 
And  when  I  looked  around, 

With  the  reins  against  his  ankles,  there  that  blaze-face  rascal 
stood ! 

33 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


He  was  shiverin'  with  fright, 
But  he  hadn't  moved  a   mite, 
For  he'd  never  learned  to  travel  till  I  told  him  that  he  should. 

And  he  stayed,  that  Texan  did, 
Till  I'd  crawled  and  rolled  and  slid 

Down  beside  him  in  the  hollow  and  the  stirrup-strap  could  find. 
And  I  somehow  reached  the  saddle 
And  hung  on— I  couldn't  straddle  — 

While  he  galloped  for  the  squadron  with  the  Sioux  strung  out 
behind. 

Oh,  the  horses  from  the  range, 

They've  got  hearts ;  it  isn't  strange 
If  they  raise  a  little  Hades  when  the  drill  gets  hot  and  fast; 

But  I'd  like  to  see  a  chart 

Of  the  automobile  cart 
That  will  save  a  man  on  purpose  when  the  shots  are  singin'  past. 

Now,  the  boys  in  blue,  you  bet, 

Earn  whatever  praise  they  get, 
But  they're  not  the  only  ones  who  never  lag, 

For  the  good  old  Yankee  horses, 

They  are  always  with  the  forces 
When  the  battle-smoke  is  curling  round  the  flag! 

And  I  don't  believe  the  men 

Who  make  drawings  xvith  a  pen 
Can  ever  build  a  thing  of  cranks  and  wheels 

That  will  starve  and  work  and  fight, 

Summer,  winter,  day  or  night, 
Like  that  same  old,  game  old  horse  that  thinks  and  feels. 


34 


SOLDIER 


O      N      G 


B 


A  KHAKI  KICK 

ACK  there  in  Washington,  people  may  stare, 
Easy-chair  officers  sputter  and  swear, 
Bureaucrats  legislate  —  what  do  we  care? 
Down  in  the  ranks  we  don't  follow  the  styles ; 
Here's  health  to  the  General,  Nelson  A.  Miles! 


I've  been  readin'  in  the  papers  and  I'm  feelin'  pretty  mad 
At  the  shabby  sort  of  treatment  that  a  game  old  soldier's  had. 
And  the  soldier  I'm  referrin'  to,  who's  so  surprisin'  game, 
Is  Miles,  Lieutenant  General  —  I  soiess  you've  heard  the  name? 


Now,  the  pointers  that  a  twelve-year  duty  sergeant  hasn't  got 
On  the  secrets  of  the  Service,  are  a  quite  extensive  lot; 
But  he  may  make  observations,  while  a-wearin'  out  his  shoes, 
Not  just  in  strict  acordance  with  the  War  Department's  views. 


35 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

I've  seen  some  bits  of  service  of  a  somewhat  stirrin'  brand 
When  the  West  was  callin'  lusty  for  a  civilizin'  hand, 
And,  myself,  I've  had  some  practice  in  that  missionary  work 
With   the   men  who   did   the   business,   from   the   buttes   to   Al- 
buquerq'. 

They've  sent  some  stunnin'  strategists,  so  history  records, 
To  show  the  noble  red  man  how  the  Nation  loves  its  wards, 
And  some  was  politicians,  and  some  was  soft  of  heart, 
And  some  was  full  of  ginger,  but  couldn't  make  a  start. 

But  the  man  who  knew  his  business  as  the  king-bird  knows  the 

hawk ; 

Who  started  with  the  rifle  and  finished  with  the  talk; 
Who  wouldn't  stop  for  bluffin'  when  he  once  got  started  right, 
Was  him  I'm  tellin'  you  about  —  you  bet  he  came  to  fight ! 

I  know  he's  no  West  Pointer  —  I've  a  notion,  what  is  more, 
That  it  isn't  only  Pointers  who  may  know  the  game  of  war, 
And  if  he's  a  little  partial  to  the  medals  on  his  chest 
He's  got  a  darned  good  right  to  be;  he  earned  'em  in  the  West. 

For  I've  follered  him  in  winter  through  those  blamed  Montana 

snows 

When  the  hills  was  stiff  as  granite  and  the  very  air  was  froze, 
And  seen  him  ridin'  out  in  front  to  lead  the  double-quick 
When  the  lines  went  into  action  on  the  banks  of  Rosebud  Creek. 

I've  lurched  across  the  Painted  Plains,  my  temples  like  to  burst, 
And  seen  men  suckin'  out  their  veins  to  quench  their  burnin' 

thirst, 

With  the  sky  a  blazin'  furnace  and  the  earth  a  bakin'  sea, 
And  he  was  there  beside  us  —  and  was  just  as  dry  as  we. 

Oh,  hang  these  army  politics,  when  jealousy  and  spite 

Can  rob  a  veteran  of  his  praise,  his  dearest,  hard-earned  right! 

There's  just  one  kind  of  officer  enlisted  men  can  like  — 

The  kind  who  keeps  his  bearings  when  the  shots  begin  to  strike. 

36 


SOLDIER       SONGS 

And  that's  the  kind  that  Miles  has  been;  he  never  ducked  or 

flinched ; 

He  was  always  in  the  mix-up  when  the  lines  of  battle  clinched ; 
He's  whipped  out  Rebs  and  redskins  and  he's  made  some  Dagos 

dance, 

And  he's  good  for  lots  more  nghtin'  if  he  ever  gets  the  chance. 
And  here's  the  moral  to  this  talk  —  I'll  ask  no  price,  but  thanks : 
Miles  may  not  have  a  stand-in,  but  he's  solid  with  the  ranks ! 

Back  there  in  Washington,  people  may  stare, 
Easy-chair  officers  sputter  and  swear, 
Bureaucrats  legislate  —  what  do  we  care? 
Down  in  the  ranks  we  don't  follow  the  styles; 
Here's  a  health  to  the  General,  Nelson  A.  Miles! 


37 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


J 


SERGEANT  NOONAN  EXPLAINS 

AMES  Noonan,  private,  'B'  Troop,  made  sergeant  on  the  field 
For  leading  charge  on  hostiles,  compelling  them  to  yield." 
That's  the  way  the  record  reads,  but,  sure,  it  isn't  so; 
Ye  mind,  I'm  Sergeant  Noonan  and  I  guess  I  ought  to  know! 

I'll  tell  ye  how  it  happened,  dead  straight,  without  no  frills. 
We'd  tracked  a   Cheyenne   war-band   clean  through   the   Black- 
snake  Hills, 

Till,  on  the  march  one  mornin',  they  jumped  us  from  the  right, 
Three  hundred  bucks  in  war-paint,  well  armed  and  full  of  fight. 

38 


SOLDIER       SONGS 

We'd  fifty  men  in  column  —  no  time  to  close  a  rank  — 
We  yanked  our  horses  sideways  and  fired  by  the  flank, 
But,  though  we  volleyed  through  'em  and  dropped  the  foremost 

ones, 
The  rest  came  on  like  devils,  right  up  against  our  guns. 

Now  half  our  boys  were  rookies  who'd  never  smelt  a  fight; 
The   yappin'   Cheyenne   war-whoop   just   turned    'em   blue    with 

fright. 

They  started  breakin'  column  and  first  we  veterans  knew, 
The  troop  had  gone  to  blazes  and  let  the  redskins  through. 

The  sergeants  clubbed  their  carbines,  the   Captain  prayed  and 

swore ; 

It  didn't  stop  the  rookies;  they  wouldn't  stand  for  more. 
Then  a  bullet  caught  my  mustang  and  ploughed  him  underneath 
And  he  bolted  toward  the  hostiles  with  the  bit  between  his  teeth. 

Thinks  I,  "Here's  good-bye,  Jimmie;  but  I'll  make  these  heathen 

grunt," 

So  I  grabbed  my  Colt  and  opened  as  we  sailed  into  their  front. 
But  they  cleared  a  passage  for  me  and  I  couldn't  trust  my  eyes 
When  their  outfit  broke  and  scattered,  scootin'  back  across  the 

rise. 

Then  I  turned  and,  there  behind  me,  all  strung  out  along  my  trail, 
Came  the  boys  of  "B"  Troop,  ridin'  like  a  sizzin'  comet's  tail, 
With  their  horses  at  the  gallop  and  revolvers  poppin'  gay 
For  they  thought  I'd  led  a  rally  when  my  mustang  ran  away! 

So  that's  the  way  it  happened,  in  brief,  without  no  frills, 
That  day  the  Cheyennes  jumped  us  among  the  Blacksnake  Hills, 
Which  is  why  I  claim  the  chevrons  that  I'm  sportin'  on  my  sleeve 
Was  won  by  my  old  mustang  and  dead  against  my  leave. 


39 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


Ac 


LARAMIE  TRAIL 

C:ROSS  the  crests  of  the  naked  hills, 

Smooth-swept  by  the  winds  of  God, 
It  cleaves  its  way  like  a  shaft  of  gray, 

Close-bound  by  the  prairie  sod. 
It  stretches  flat  from  the  sluggish  Platte 

To  the  lands  of  forest  shade; 
The  clean  trail,  the  lean  trail, 

The  trail  the  troopers  made. 

It  draws  aside  with  a  wary  curve 

From  the  lurking,  dark  ravine, 
It  launches  fair  as  a  lance  in  air 

O'er  the  raw-ribbed  ridge  between: 
With  never  a  wait  it  plunges  straight 

Through  river  or  reed-grown  brook; 
The  deep  trail,  the  steep  trail, 

The  trail  the  squadrons  took. 

They  carved  it  well,  those  men  of  old, 

Stern  lords  of  the  border  war, 
They  wrought  it  out  with  their  sabres  stout 

And  marked  it  with  their  gore. 
They  made  it  stand  as  an  iron  band 

Along  the  wild  frontier; 
The  strong  trail,  the  long  trial, 

The  trail  of  force  and  fear. 

For  the  stirring  note  of  the  bugle's  throat 

Ye  may  hark  to-day  in  vain, 
For  the  track  is  scarred  by  the  gang-plow's  shard 

And  gulfed  in  the  growing  grain. 
But  wait  to-night  for  the  moonrise  white ; 

Perchance  ye  may  see  them  tread 
The  lost  trail,  the  ghost  trail, 

The  trail  of  the  gallant  dead. 


40 


SOLDIER       SQNC 

'Twixt  cloud  and  cloud  o'er  the  pallid  moon 

From  the  nether  dark  they  glide 
And  the  grasses  sigh  as  they  rustle  by 

Their  phantom  steeds  astride. 
By  four  and  four  as  they  rode  of  yore 

And  well  they  know  the  way; 
The  dim  trail,  the  grim  trail, 

The  trail  of  toil  and  fray. 

With  tattered  guidons  spectral  thin 

Above  their  swaying  ranks, 
With  carbines  swung  and  sabres  slung 

And  the  gray  dust  on  their  flanks. 
They  march  again  as  they  marched  it  then 

When  the  red  men  dogged  their  track, 
The  gloom  trail,  the  doom  trail, 

The  trail  they  came  not  back. 

They  pass,  like  a  flutter  of  drifting  fog, 

As  the  hostile  tribes  have  passed, 
As  the  wild-wing'd  birds  and  the  bison  herds 

And  the  unfenced  prairies  vast, 
And  those  who  gain  by  their  strife  and  pain 

Forget,  in  the  land  they  won, 
The  red  trail,  the  dead  trail, 

The  trail  of  duty  done. 

But  to  him  who  loves  heroic  deeds 

The  far-flung  path  still  bides, 
The  bullet  sings  and  the  war-whoop  rings 

And  the  stalwart  trooper  rides. 
For  they  were  the  sort  from  Snelling  Fort 

Who  traveled  fearlessly 
The  bold  trail,  the  old  trail, 

The  trail  to  Laramie. 


41 


II 
PRAIRIE  SONGS 


T 


II 

PRAIRIE    SONGS 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WIND 

HE  wind  comes  rollicking  out  of  the  West 

(Oh,  wind  of  the  West,  so  free !) 
With  the  scent  of  the  plains  on  its  heaving  breast. 

(Oh,  plains  that  I  no  more  see!) 
It  cries  through  the  smoky  and  roaring  town 
Of  the  tossing  grass  and  the  hillsides  brown 
Where  the  cattle  graze  as  the  sun  goes  down. 
(Oh,  sun  on  the  prairie  sea!) 

And  this  is  the  song  that  the  West  wind  sings; 

(Oh,  call  of  the  wind,  have  done!) 
That  the  worth  of  life  is  the  joy  it  brings. 

(Oh,  joy  that  is  never  won!) 
That  the  stainless  sky  and  the  virgin  sod 
Hold  richer  wealth,  of  the  peace  of  God, 
Than  the  streets  where  the  weary  toilers  plod. 

(Oh,  streets  that  the  heart  would  shun!) 

But,  wind  of  the  West,  in  vain  thy  voice, 
(Oh,  why  must  the  voice  be  vain?) 
If  joy  were  all,  'twere  an  easy  choice. 

(Oh,  choice  that  is  fraught  with  pain!) 
The  road  of  life  is  a  hard,  hard  way 
But  yet,  if  we  hold  to  the  path,  it  may 
Lead  back  to  the  land  of  dreams  some  day. 
(Yes,  back  to  the  plains  again!) 


45 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


T 


THE  FUR  TRADERS 

HE  moon,  on  plain  and  bluff  and  stream, 
Casts  but  a  faint  and  fitful  gleam, 
For,  striving  in  a  ghostly  race, 
The  clouds  that  rack  across  her  face 
Now  leave  her  drifting,  white  and  high, 
In  some  clear  lake  of  purple  sky 
And  then,  like  waves  with  crests  upcurled, 
Obscure  her  radiance  from  the  world. 
Across  the  wild  Missouri's  breast 
Which  lies  in  icy  armor  dressed, 
The  north  wind  howls  and  moans, 
Wrenching  the  naked  trees  that  stand 
Like  skeletons  along  the  strand, 
To  shrill  and  creaking  groans. 
On  distant  butte  and  wide  coteau 
Is  snow  and  never-ending  snow ; 
Whirling  aloft  in  spiral  clouds, 

46 


PRAIRIE       SONG 


Weaving  in  misty,  crystal  shrouds, 

Then  floating  back  to  earth  again 

To  drift  across  the  frozen  plain 

In  strangely  sculptured  trough  and  crest, 

Like  some  slow  ocean's  heaving  breast. 

Such  night  is  not  for  mortal  kind 

To  fare  abroad;  the  bitter  wind, 

The  restless  snows,  the  frost-locked  mold 

Bid  living  creatures  seek  their  hold 

And  leave  to  Winter's  monarch  will 

The  solitudes  of  vale  and  hill. 

The  buffalo,  whose  legions  vast 

A  few  short  moons  ago  have  passed 

Adown  these  bleak  hillsides, 

Now  graze  full  many  a  league  away 

Where,  through  the  genial  southern  day 

The  winds  of  Matagorda  Bay 

Caress  their  shaggy  hides. 

The  wolves  have  sought  their  coverts  deep 

In  dark  ravine  and  coulee  steep, 

Where  cedar  thickets,  dense  and  warm, 

Afford  protection  from  the  storm, 

And  every  creature  of  the  plains 

Has  left  his  well-beloved  domains 

To  seek,  or  near  or  far, 

A  haven  where  warm-blooded  life 

May  cower  from  the  dreadful  strife 

Of  hyperborean  war. 

But  see,  across  yon  barren  swell 

Where  wind  and  snow-rime  weave  a  spell 

Of  phantoms  o'er  the  hill, 

What  awkward  creatures  of  the  night 

Come  creeping,   snail-like,  on  the  sight, 

Halting  and  slow,  in  weary  plight 

But  ever  onward  still? 

Their  limbs  are  long  and  lank  and  thin, 

Their  forms  are  swathed  from  foot  to  chin 

In  garments  rude  of  bison  skin. 

47 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


Upon  each  broad  and  stalwart  back 

Is  strapped  a  huge  and  weighty  pack, 

Their  coarse  and  ragged  hair 

Streams  back  from  brows  whose  dusky  stain 

Is  dyed  by  blizzard,  wind,  and  rain, 

They  are  a  fearsome  pair; 

Lone  pilgrims  of  the  coteau  vast, 

They  seem  like  cursed  souls,  outcast 

To  roam  forever  there. 

Yet  hark!    Adown  the  cold  wind  flung, 

What  voice  of  merriment  gives  tongue? 

'Tis  human  laughter,  deep  and  strong, 

And  now,  all  suddenly,  a  song 

Rings  o'er  the  prairie  lone! 

A  chanson  old,  whose  rythm  oft 

Has  lingered  on  the  breezes  soft 

That  kiss  the  storied  Rhone, 

Or  floated  up  from  lips  of  love 

To  some  dark  casement,  high  above 

The  streets  of  Avignon, 

Where  lovely  eyes,  all  maidenly, 

Glance  shyly  forth,  that  they  may  see 

What  lover  comes  to  serenade 

Ere  drawing  back  the  latticed  shade 

To  toss  a  red  rose  down. 

What  fickle  fate,  what  strange  mischance 

Has  brought  this  song  of  sunny  France 

To  ride  upon  the  blizzard  crest 

That  mantles  o'er  the  wild  Northwest? 

To  find  its  echoes  sweet 

In  barren  butte  and  stark  cliff-side, 

Whose  beetling  summits  override 

The  fierce  Missouri's  murky  tide; 

To  rouse  the  scurrying  feet 

Of  antelope  and  lean  coyote ; 

To  hear  its  last,  long,  witching  note, 

Caught  in  the  hoot-owl's  dismal  throat, 

Sweep  by  on  pinions  fleet. 

48 


PRAIRIE       SONGS 

Full  far  these  errant  sons  of  Gaul 
Have  journeyed  from  the  gray  sea-wall 
That  fronts  on  fair  Marseilles, 
But  still  the  spirit  of  their  race 
Bids  them  to  turn  a  dauntless  face 
On  whate'er  Fates  prevail. 
The  storm  may  drive  to  bush  and  den 
The  creatures  of  the  field  and  fen, 
But  neither  storm  nor  darksome  night 
Nor  ice-bound  stream  nor  frowning  height 
Can  check  or  turn  or  put  to  flight 
These  iron-hearted  men. 

Across  the  flats  of  stinging  sands, 

Through  thickets,  woods,  and  sere  uplands, 

Their  weary  pathway  shows ; 

Toward  some  far  fort  of  logs  and  stakes 

Deep  hidden  in  the  willow  brakes, 

Right  onward  still  it  goes 

Persistently,  an  unblazed  track, 

Bent  from  the  cheerless  bivouac 

Of  some  poor,  prairie  Indian  band 

Whose  chill  and  flimsy  tepees  stand 

Half  buried  in  the  snows. 

Yet  what  of  costly  merchandise 

That  wealth  may  covet,  commerce  prize, 

Can  these  adventurers  wring 

From  that  ill-fed,  barbarian  horde 

As  seems  to  them  a  meet  reward 

For  all  the  risk  and  toil  and  pain 

They've  suffered  on  the  winter  plain 

Amid  their  journeying? 

Ah,  wealth  enough  is  garnered  there, 
Though  not  of  gold  or  jewels  rare, 
To  rouse  the  white  man's  longing  greed 
And  send  his  servants  forth  with  speed 
To  lay  the  treasure  bare. 
The  trinkets  cheap  these  traders  brought 

49 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


The  savages  have  dearly  bought, 
Persuaded  guilelessly  to  pay 
A  ten  times  doubled  usury 
In  furs  of  beavers  and  of  minks, 
Of  silver  fox  and  spotted  lynx. 
For  all  their  rich  and  varied  store 
Of  peltries,  gathered  from  the  shore, 
The  wood,  the  prairie,  and  the  hill 
By  trapper's  art  and  hunter's  skill, 
The  traders'  heavy  packs  now  fill. 

A  journey  far  those  furs  must  go 

From  these  wild  fastnesses  of  snow, 

By  travois,  pack,  and  deep  bateau; 

By  keel-boat,  sloop,  and  merchantman 

Till  half  a  hemisphere  they  span, 

Ere  they  will  lie,  at  last,  displayed 

By  boulevard  and  esplanade 

In  Europe's  buzzing  marts  of  trade. 

These  marten  skins,  so  soft  and  warm, 

May  wrap  some  Russian  princess'  form 

And  shield  her  from  the  Arctic  storm 

That  howls  o'er  Kroonstadt's  bay; 

That  robe,  a  huge  black  bear  which,  dressed, 

May  cloak  some  warrior  monarch's  breast 

As,  gazing  o'er  the  battle  crest, 

He  sees  the  foemen's  legions  pressed 

In  panic,  from  the  fray. 

But  it  is  not  the  destinies 

Which  may,  perchance,  beyond  the  seas, 

Await  these  rare  commodities, 

That  chiefly  signify, 

Though  king  and  knight  and  princess  fair 

Should  leave  the  coteaus  stripped  and  bare 

Their  pride  to  gratify. 

But  this ;  that  in  the  storm  to-night, 

Through  cloudy  gloom,  through  pale  moonlight, 

Two  men  still  press  along. 

Not  hiding,  as  the  wolf  and  hind, 

50 


RAIRIE        SONG 

From  blinding  snow  and  bitter  wind 
Nor,  like  the  Indian,  crouching  low 
Above  a  brush-fire's  feeble  glow 
But,  vigorous  and  strong, 
Hasting  their  bidden  task  to  close 
Whate'er  obstructions  interpose 
And  parrying  Fortune's  adverse  blows 
Right  gaily,  with  a  song. 

Plains  of  the  mighty,  virgin  West, 
Plains  in  cold,  sterile  beauty  dressed, 
Your  time  of  fruit  draws  near! 
Creatures  of  thicket,  vale  and  shore, 
Tribes  of  the  hills,  your  reign  is  o'er, 
The  conquerer  is  here ! 
His  footprints  mark  your  secret  grounds, 
His  voice  upon  your  air  resounds, 
His  name,  unto  your  utmost  bounds, 
Is  one  of  strength  and  fear. 

The  magic  of  his  virile  powers 

Shall  change  your  desert  wastes  to  bowers, 

Your  nakedness  to  shade ; 

Shall  stretch  broad,  rustling  ranks  of  corn 

Along  your  stony  crests  forlorn 

And  wheat-fields,  dappling  in  the  sun, 

Where  your  mad  autumn  fires  have  run. 

The  trails  your  bison  made 

Shall  grow  beneath  his  hurrying  feet 

To  highway  broad  and  village  street, 

Along  whose  grassy  sides  shall  sleep 

Meadows  and  orchards,  fruited  deep; 

Homesteads  and  schools  and  holy  fanes 

To  prove  that  all  these  fertile  plains 

Are  turned  by  God's  eternal  plan 

To  serve  the  onward  march  of  man, 

Which  sweeping  down  the  vale  of  time 

With  gathering  strength  and  hope  sublime 

Is  never  checked  nor  stayed. 


51 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


w 


COWBOY   SONG 

E  are  up  in  the  morning  ere  dawning  of  day 
And  the  grub-wagon's  busy  and  flap-jacks  in  play, 
While  the  herd  is  astir  over  hillside  and  swale 
With  the  night-riders  rounding  them  into  the  trail. 

Come,  take  up  your  cinches 

And  shake  up  your  reins; 
Come,  wake  up  your  bronco 

And  break  for  the  plains ; 

Come,  roust  those  red  steers  from  the  long  chaparral, 
For  the  outfit  is  off  for  the  railroad  corral ! 


The  sun  circles  upward,  the  steers  as  they  plod 
Are  pounding  to  powder  the  hot  prairie  sod, 
And  it  seems,  as  the  dust  turns  you  dizzy  and  sick 
That  you'll  never  reach  noon  and  the  cool,  shady  creek. 

But  tie  up  your  kerchief 

And  ply  up  your  nag; 
Come,  dry  up  your  grumbles 

And  try  not  to  lag; 

Come,  now  for  the  steers  in  the  long  chaparral, 
For  we're  far  on  the  way  to  the  railroad  corral! 

The  afternoon  shadows  are  starting  to  lean 
When  the  grub-wagon  sticks  in  a  marshy  ravine 
And  the  herd  scatters  further  than  vision  can  look, 
For  you  bet  all  true  punchers  will  help  out  the  cook! 

So  shake  out  your  rawhide 

And  snake  it  up  fair; 
Come,  break  in  your  bronco 

To  taking  his  share! 

Come,  now  for  the  steers  in  the   long  chaparral, 
For  it's  all  in  the  drive  to  the  railroad  corral! 


52 


PRAIRIE  SONGS 

But  the  longest  of  days  must  reach  evening  at  last, 

When  the  hills  are  all  climbed  and  the  creeks  are  all  passed, 

And  the  tired  herd  droops  in  the  yellowing  light ; 

Let  them  loaf  if  they  will,  for  the  railroad's  in  sight! 

Come,  strap  up  the  saddle 

Whose  lap  you  have  felt ; 
So  flap  up  your  holster 

And  snap  up  your  belt; 

Good-bye  to  the  steers  and  the  long  chaparral ; 
There's  a  town  that's  a  trump  by  the  railroad  corral! 


53 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


M 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  KIMBALL 

ET  a  chap  the  other  night,  down  on  Halsted  Street, 
Holdin'  up  Mike  Kelley's  bar,  sippin'  mint  an'  rye; 

I'd  just  hit  the  Stock  Yards  with  a  cattle-train  o'  meat, 
Loped  around  to  Kelly's  place,  singein'  hot  an'  dry. 

This  here  chap  was  somethin'  rare ;  Henglish  tweeds  an'  gloves, 
Stripey  collar  round  his  neck,  sparks  to  throw  away, 

He  was  givin'  'em  a  song,  'bout  the  town  he  loves, 

How  they  hit  "the  pace  that  kills,"  down  on  old  Broadway. 

Heaved  a  wistful,  weepy  sigh  'twould  make  a  bay  steer  groan 
When  he  told  us  what  a  spangled,  rompin'  time  he'd  had 

Christmas  Eve  a  year  ago,  just  before  he'd  blown 

Out  into  the  "Woolly,"  where  we  don't  know  shrimps  from 
shad. 

Claimed  along  'bout  three  a.  m.  they  found  an  apple  girl 
Sleepin'  in  a  doorway;  stole  her  fruit  to  raise  a  fuss, 

Then  they  made  her  do  a  Midway  Turkish  dancin'  whirl 

'Fore  they'd  pay  the  damage  —  an'  he  called  that  generous ! 

Awful  homesick  yarn  it  was.     'Feared  he  couldn't  find 

Nothin'  in  the  whoopin'  line  warm  enough  out  West. 

Made  me  sort  o'  weary,  so,  to  ease  my  mind, 

I  dug  up  a  Christmas  tale  an'  let  him  take  a  rest. 

Mind  the  Northwest  homestead  boom,  twenty-odd  years  back, 
When  Dakota  stuck  her  nose  above  the  waves  o'  fame? 

I  was  pottin-'  coyotes  from  a  Brule  County  shack, 

Burnin'  hay  an'  eatin'  pork  an'  holdin'  down  my  claim. 

Not  a  strictly  stirrin'  life;  quite  a  lot  less  gay 

Than  workin'  in  a  grave-yard,  a-plantin'  of  remains. 

Notion  hit  me  Christmas  time  to  take  a  holiday ; 

Roped  the  cayuse,  strapped  my  guns,  an'  struck  across  the 
plains. 

54 


PRAIRIE        SONGS 

Galloped  into  Kimball  'long  'bout  milkin'  time, 

Wind  a-whoopin'  from  the  North,  cold  as  billy  hell  — 

Ever  known  a  prairie  town  in  its  infant  prime? 

Kimball  was  a  corker  an'  I've  seen  some  pretty  swell. 

Just  a  bunch  o'  dry  goods  boxes  dumped  along  a  rise, 

Cracks  plugged  up  with  pitch  an'   tar,  stove-pipes  stickin' 
through, 

But,  you  bet,  that  little  burg  was  sure  enough  the  prize 
Per  stirrin'  up  a  tinted  time  an'  startin'  it  to  brew. 

Thought  I'd  have  a  quiet  night ;  Lord,  it  wa'n't  no  use ! 

First  bumped  into  Billy  Stokes,  up  from  Bijou  Hills, 
We  wandered  into   "Rancher's   Rest."  spang  onto   "Shorthorn" 
Bruce, 

Charlie  Gates  an'  "Doc"  Lemar,  curin'  of  their  chills. 

Well,  that  closed  the  "quiet"  act;  things  was  due  to  burn. 

Dabbled   with    the    red-eye   till   the    lamp-lights   ringed   an' 

soared. 
Then  Lemar  got  wealthy  an'  thought  he'd  take  a  turn 

Spinnin'  out  his  sinkers  on  the  racy  roulette  board. 

Oh,  the  time  was  lovely  (fer  the  man  behind  the  wheel !) 

Stokes  an'  "Shorthorn"  joined  the  game,  just  to  try  their  luck, 

Charlie,  landin'  on  the  bar,  started  off  a  reel; 

Then  the  banker  "rolled  the  roll"— an'  the  blame  thing  stuck! 

"Fixed!"  yells  Bill  an'  "Shorthorn,"  whippin'  out  their  pipes; 

Banker  backed  ag'in  the  wall,  huntin'  fer  a  crack, 
Air  just  pink  with  cuss-words,   runnin'   round   in  stripes, 

Doors  an'  winders  full  o'  folks,  none  a-comin'  back. 

"Doc"  was  just  a-prancin'  round,  gettin'  things  in  range, 

So's  to  shoot  the  whole  joint  up  without  no  undue  pause, 

When  we  heerd  a  little  voice,  thin  an'  mighty  strange, 

Pipin'  up  from  somewheres,  "Mister,  is  you  Santa  Claus?" 

55 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Well,  I  swan,  if  that  there  shack  had  gathered  up  an'  r'ared 
An'   galloped   off   across   the    street,   we'd   not   been    more 
knocked  out 

Than  when  we  seen  that  little  girl,  blue-eyed  an'  curly-haired, 
A-standin'  in  the  bar-room,  half-way  'twixt  a  smile  an'  pout. 

Say,  we  ducked  them  guns  o'  ours  underneath  our  hats 
'S  if  the  Sheriff's  deputies  had  just  come  jumpin'  in. 

We  sure  was  worse  kerflummuxed  than  a  lot  o'  sneakin'  rats, 
Caught  a-stealin'  barley  in  some  feller's  stable-bin. 

That  there  little  lady  stood  an'  looked  around  a  spell, 

Then  she  toddled  to  Lemar  an'  looked  up  in  his  eyes : 

"Oo's  the  big,  long-whiskered  man  I'se  heard  my  Mama  tell, 
'At  brings  nice  fings  to  everyone  what's  good  an'  never  cries. 

"Mama's  good;  I'se  tried  to  be" — her  eyes  began  to  fill  — 

"But  she  says  'at  Santa  Claus  can't  come  this  Christmas  Day. 

I  don't  see  why;  since  Papa's  in  that  still  place  on  the  hill 
She  never  gets  no  p'itty  clo'es,  nor  me  nice  toys  for  play. 

"She  told  me,  though,  'at  Santa  Claus  was  here  in  town  to-night 
An'  so  I  fought  I'd  dess  slip  out  an'  find  him  if  I  could 

An'  see  if  he's  dot  sump'n  left  —  I  fought,  perhaps,  he  might  — 
An',  mister,  if  you's  Santy,  tan  we  have  it,  if  we's  good?" 

I've  seen  "Doc"  get  ditched  an'  wrecked  with  forty  cars  o'  steers 
An'  take  it  like  a  mallard  duck,  paradin'  in  the  rain; 

Never  thought  he'd  learned  to  know  there  was  such  things  as 

tears, 
Which  shows  it's  hard  to  figger  how  a  feller  works  his  brain. 

He  turned  round  an'  raked  his  stakes  from  off  that  roulette  board. 
An'  the  whiskey  wasn't  guilty  for  his  huskiness  o'  voice : 

"Boys,"  says  he,  "I  pass  this  deal  right  here  an,'  by  the  Lord, 
I  blow  my  wad  on  somethin'  else  —  you   all  kin  take   yer 
choice. 

56 


PRAIRIE        SONGS 

"It's  well  enough  to  whoop  things  up  an'  get  a  gorgeous  head 
But  mighty  wise  to  recolleck  yer  coin's  just  gone  to  grass. 

I'm  a-goin'  to  take  a  whirl  at  Santy  Claus,  instead, 

Wish  that  toys  was  in  my  line,  but  maybe  these'll  pass." 

Every  cent  he  skirmished,  from  his  hat-band  to  his  pants, 
Went  into  the  apron  that  the  little  one  held  out ; 

Rest  of  us,  we  follered  suit,  scrappin'  fer  the  chance, 

Then  we  took  her  to  the  door  an'  finished  with  a  shout. 

But,  before  we  let  her  go  —  shameful  sort  o'  trick !  — 

Made  her  kiss  us  all  good-night;  "Doc"  took  his  right  slow. 

I  just  sucked  my  breath  all  in  an'  hustled  through  it  quick ; 
Still,  she  didn't  seem  to  mind ;  guess  she  didn't  know. 

"Now,"  says  I,  "my  homesick  friend"  (to  him  on  Halsted  Street), 
"You're  a  painful  sort  o'  sight,  crackin'  up  Broadway. 

Kimball.  Brule  County,  was  an  ace-high  flush  to  beat 

An'  I'd  backed  her  to  the  limit  fer  a  winner  in  the  play. 

"But  the  beauty-spot  on  Kimball  an'  the  boys  that  made  her  hum 
Was  the  fact  that  rye  an'  roulette  didn't  petrify  their  souls; 

Simply  tip  'em  to  the  theory  that  yer  luck  was  on  the  bum 

An'  they'd  cut  the  game  instanter  an'  deliver  up  their  rolls. 

"An'  if  I'd  a  wife  an'  children  an'  was  billed  fer  Canaan's  Strand 
I'd  take  a  sight  more  pleasure  in  a-turnin'  up  my  toes 

If  I  left  'em  to  the  mercies  o'  that  old  Dakota  land 

Than  in  your  plug-hat  city  where  the  money-grubber  grows." 


57 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


R 


A  LAMENT 

AWHIDE"  Smith's  gone  crazy. 

"Rawhide"  was  my  pard. 
Used  to  be  a  daisy; 

Say,  it's  mighty  hard! 


Down  at  Twin  Buttes  City 
"Rawhide"  met  a  maid, 

Young  an'  slim  an'  pretty 
An'  she  turned  his  haid. 


We  jest  started  dancin' 
Frolicsome  an'  gay  — 

Hang  the  pay-day  prancin' 
When  it  ends  that  way! 


58 


PRAIRIE        SONGS 

Say!  that  little  creature 

Got  him  roped  all  right; 
First  I  knew,  a  preacher 

Had  spliced  'em  good  an'  tight. 

Now  he's  gone  to  farmin' 

Way  off  from  the  range. 
Says  his  place  is  charmin'; 

Lord,  he's  gettin'  strange! 

No  more  pal  to  cheer  me 

Ridin'  herd  at  night; 
No  more  comrade  near  me, 

Game  fer  fun  or  fight. 

One  coat  did  fer  cover 

Cold  nights  when  it  stormed, 

But  them  nights  is  over; 

"Rawhide"   Smith's   reformed ! 


59 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


D 


JESUS  GARCIA 

OWN  in  Sonera's  wide,  white  lands, 
Lost  in  the  endless  waste  of  sands, 
Lies,  like  a  blot  of  gray  and  brown, 
Nacozari,  a  desert  town. 
All  day  long  through  its  narrow  street 
Children  play  in  the  dust  and  heat, 
Naked  of  limb  and  dark  of  face, 
Lithe  as  fawns  in  their  careless  grace, 
Chattering  shrill  in  a  half-caste  speech 
Far  from  the  Spanish  the  school  rooms  teach. 

All  day  long  by  the  doorways  small 
Cut  through  the  thick  adobe  wall, 
Or  in  the  narrow  belts  of  shade 
Here  and  there  by  the  flat  roofs  made, 
Lounge  the  indolent,  swarthy  men, 
Moving  sluggishly  now  and  then 
Better  to  scan  their  dicing  throws 
Under  their  low-tipped  sombreros, 
But,  for  the  most,  content  to  lie 
Drowsing  the  listless  hours  by, 
Watching,  each,  as  the  thin,  blue  jet 
Curls  from  his  drooping  cigarette. 

All  day  long,  from  the  dawn's  first  flush 
When  the  mass  is  said  in  the  morning  hush 
Till  fall  of  eve,  when  the  vesper's  peal 
Calls  the  faithful  again  to  kneel, 
Nothing  rouses  the  quiet  place, 
Lulled  in  the  desert's  hushed  embrace, 
Save  when  out  of  the  distance  dim, 
Over  the  far  horizon's  rim, 
Sudden  a  purring  whisper  comes, 
Rising  swift,  like  the  throb  of  drums, 
And  the  iron  track  which  stretches  forth, 
Straight  as  a  lance  from  south  to  north, 
Quivers  and  sings  in  the  mighty  strain 

60 


PRAIRIE  SONGS 

From  the  grinding  wheels  of  a  through-bound  train 

Then,  for  a  space,  as  the  whistle  screams, 

Nacozari  awakes  from  dreams. 

Women  and  children,  boys  and  men 

Stream  to  the  station  platform  then, 

Eager  to  gaze  from  its  long  plank  walk, 

With  gesturing  arms  and  rapid  talk, 

At  the  huge  machine  like  a  comet  hurled 

From  the  mystical  zone  of  the  outer  world. 

Thus  it  was  on  one  summer's  day, 
While  the  land  in  its  noontide  slumber  lay 
With  never  a  living  creature  near 
Save  a  lizard,  perhaps,  by  a  cactus  spear 
Basking  himself  in  the  fervid  heat, 
Or,  high  aloft,  like  a  pirate  fleet, 
A  flock  of  vultures  on  lazy  wing 
Circling  wide  in  a  watchful  ring, 
That  into  the  street  of  the  desert  town 
A  long,  slow  freight  came  rolling  down, 
Laden  with  goods  of  Northern  yield 
For  Mexican  mine  and  town  and  field. 

Rumbling  in  with  failing  speed 
It  came  to  rest  like  a  tired  steed, 
With  the  mogul  engine's  dusty  flank 
Close  by  the  massive  water-tank, 
As  if  it  longed,  like  a  living  thing, 
To  quench  its  thirst  at  the  cooling  spring 
Of  the  thousand-foot  artesian  well, 
Sunk  through  the  desert's  crusted  shell. 

Just  as  it  stopped  with  a  grinding  jar 

Rattling  back  from  car  to  car, 

Out  of  the  engine-cab  swung  clear 

Jesus  Garcia,  the  engineer, 

Sooted  and  grimed  to  his  finger-tips 

But  the  lilt  of  a  song  on  his  smiling  lips, 

For  he  was  handsome  and  young  and  strong 

And  love  was  the  theme  of  his  murmured  song. 

61 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Slowly  he  passed  his  engine  by 
Scanning  its  length  with  a  practiced  eye, 
Touching  a  polished  slide-valve  here, 
Or  there,  a  shaft  of  the  running-gear, 
Which  done,  he  turned  in  a  boyish  mood 
To  a  group  of  children  who,  gaping,  stood 
At  the  side  of  the  track,  too  wonder-bound 
To  move  a  limb  or  to  make  a  sound. 
Into  their  midst  Garcia  sprung 
And  a  chubby  lad  to  his  shoulder  swung, 
Who,  laughing,  clutched  at  his  corded  neck 
Like  a  sailor  tossed  on  a  rocking  deck. 

Perhaps  to  the  Mexican  engineer 

The  child  suggested  a  vision  dear 

Of  a  little  boy  of  his  very  own 

In  a  white-washed  cottage  at  Torreon, 

And  the  dark-eyed  mother  who,  day  by  day, 

Told  beads  for  her  husband,  far  away, 

And  watched,  as  the  trains  steamed  forth  and  back, 

For  his  mogul  engine  along  the  track. 

But  only  a  moment,  with  swinging  feet, 
The  baby  perched  on  his  lofty  seat, 
For  suddenly  down  by  the  cars  in  rear 
There  rang  a  shriek  of  unbridled  fear. 
Garcia  turned,  in  amaze  looked  back; 
A  score  of  men  from  the  railroad  track 
Were  rushing  away  in  a  frantic  race 
As  if  they  had  looked  on  a  demon's  face, 
And  then,  as  he  turned,  the  cause  was  plain 
For  half-way  back  in  the  standing  train 
A  flame  licked  out  from  a  box-car's  side, 
Yellow  and  spiteful,  a  handbreadth  wide. 

His  cheek  grew  pale,  but  his  lips  still  smiled 

As  he  slipped  from  his  shoulder  the  startled  child, 

Nor  even  forgot  in  his  haste  to  place 

A  good-bye  kiss  on  the  upturned  face ; 

Then  he  sprang  to  the  street  with  a  bound  and  gazed 

62 


PRAIRIE        SONG 

Intent,  at  the  spot  where  the  fire  blazed. 
Barely  a  glance  was  enough  to  tell 
It  was  a  car  which  he  knew  full  well  — 
Shipped  in  bond  by  a  fast  freight  line, 
Bound  for  a  great  Sonora  mine  — 
Filled  to  the  roof  and  loaded  tight 
With  closed-tiered  boxes  of  dynamite; 
Enough,  if  its  deadly  strength  found  vent, 
To  rock  the  land  like  a  billowed  tent, 
Sweeping  the  town  from  the  desert  sand 
Clean  as  the  palm  of  an  opened  hand. 

What  did  he  do,  the  engineer, 
Face  to  face  with  this  mortal  fear? 
Turn,  as  the  rest,  to  the  desert  wide, 
Mad  with  dread,  for  a  place  to  hide, 
Leaving  the  town  and  its  helpless  folk 
Doomed  to  death  at  a  single  stroke? 
No!    Though  only  a  peon  born 
Heart  like  his  might  a  king  adorn! 

Waving  his  arms  to  his  frightened  crew, 
Such  as  remained,  a  scattered  few, 
Garcia  uttered  a  warning  shout  — 
"Undile!     Vamos!"     ("Run!     Get  out!") 
Leaped  to  his  engine  waiting  there, 
Opened  the  throttle,  released  the  air, 
And  started  the  jets  for  the  sand  to  run 
On  the  glassy  rails  where  the  drivers  spun, 
Till,  biting  the  steel  with  a  spurt  of  fire 
Sputtering  back  from  each  grinding  tire, 
The  monster  conquered  its  straining  load 
And,  gathering  speed  on  the  curveless  road, 
It  rolled  from  the  town  and  left  it  whole, 
Like  death  torn  loose  from  a  stricken  soul. 

But  looking  backward  with  stern-set  face, 
Throttle  gripped  in  a  firm  embrace, 
Garcia  goaded  his  panting  steed 

63 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Ever  and  ever  to  faster  speed. 

Knowing  still  if  the  blow  should  fall 

It  would  shatter  the  village  wall  from  wall. 

Now  from  the  sides  of  the  car  behind, 

Fanned  by  its  flight  through  the  rushing  wind, 

Burst  the  flames  in  a  lashing  sheet 

Peeling  the  paint  with  its  fervid  heat, 

Vomiting  sparks  like  a  fiery  hail 

On  the  cars  that  rocked  in  its  lurid  trail. 


Still  the  mogul,  in  giant  flight, 

Swaying  drunkenly  left  and  right, 

Strained  to  the  race,  while  the  rails  it  trod 

Thundered  behind  it,  rod  by  rod; 

Still  in  its  cab,  foredoomed,  alone. 

Waiting  death  like  a  man  of  stone, 

Stood  Garcia,  his  feet  braced  wide 

To  the  pitch  and  plunge  of  the  engine's  stride, 

With  never  a  frown  to  show  he  knew 

Regret  for  the  task  he  was  there  to  do. 

Hardly  a  mile  had  his  wild  train  fled 

Into  the  desert  straight  ahead, 

When  a  flare  of  light  to  his  vision  came 

As  if  the  world  were  engulfed  in  flame. 

Perhaps  it  fell  on  his  closing  eyes 

Like  the  great,  white  light  of  Paradise; 

Perhaps,  in  the  roar  which  smote  him  there, 

Too  deep  for  a  mortal  ear  to  bear, 

He  heard  but  the  Heavenly  trumpet-roll 

Blown  clear  to  welcome  a  hero's  soul. 

At  least,  if  any  have  won  to  rest 

In  the  fair,  green  land  of  the  ever  blest 

By  earning  their  right  therein  to  dwell, 

Jesus  Garcia  deserved  it  well, 

For  in  the  blast  that  strewed  his  train, 

Torn  in  fragments,  along  the  plain, 

Only  his  soul  went  forth  to  meet 

The'  final  call  at  his  Master's  feet. 


64 


PRAIRIE  SONGS 


So  it  is  that  to-day,  alone, 

In  a  white-washed  cottage  at  Torreon, 

A  brown-skinned  woman  with  sad,  dark  eyes 

Looks  on  her  child  at  his  play,  and  sighs, 

Knowing  well  she  will  hark  in  vain 

For  her  husband's  step  at  the  door  again, 

Or  watch,  as  the  trains  steam  back  and  forth, 

For  his  mogul  engine  out  of  the  North. 

So  it  is  that  when  evening  falls, 

Draping  the  dull  adobe  walls 

Fold  on  fold  in  its  tender  mist, 

Purple  and  blue  and  amethyst, 

And  Nacozari  kneels  down  to  pray 

At  the  vesper  call  from  the  chapel  gray, 

Many  an  orison  of  love 

Is  wafted  up  to  the  stars  above 

For  the  peace  of  Jesus  Garcia's  soul; 

He  who  had  saved  the  village  whole 

By  the  utmost  gift  which  a  man  can  give  — 

Life,  that  his  fellow  men  might  live. 


65 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


D 


A  CHRISTMAS  LETTER 

EAR  MISS: 

For  this  pink  stationery 
Forgive  me ;  it's  all  I  could  find 

In  Buck  Dalton's  store  at  the  Ferry, 
So  I  took  it — I  hope  you  won't  mind. 

For  it's  Christmas  good  wishes  I'm  sending, 
Though  in  words  not  the  best  ever  slung, 

To  you,  where  the  Tiber  is  wending, 

From  me,  on  the  banks  of  the  Tongue. 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  the  morning 

When  your  car  of  the  Overland  Mail 

Broke  loose  on  a  curve,  without  warning, 
And  was  ditched  by  the  spread  of  a  rail? 

I  was  herding  near  by  in  the  valley, 

And  I  pulled  out  your  father  and  you, 

And  I  found  that  your  name,  Miss,  was  Sallie, 
And — well,  I  remember.     Do  you? 

You  were  there  for  five  hours  at  least,  Miss, 
Then  the  whistle,  a  smile,  a  last  word, 

And  you  rolled  away  to  the  East,  Miss, 
While  I  galloped  back  to  the  herd. 

You,  back  to  your  world  and  its  beauties, 
New  York,  Paris,  Rome,  and  all  those, 

I,  back  to  a  cowboy's  rough  duties 

In  sunshine  and  rainstorm  and  snows. 

But  to-night  I'm  alone  in  the  shack  here 

On  my  quarter-square  Government  claim, 

While  coyotes  are  yelping  out  back  here  — 
You'd  be  scared,  Miss,  I  guess,  by  the  same. 


RAIRIE        SONG 

The  moonlight  is  white  on  the  river, 

And  the  long,  frozen  miles  of  the  plain 

Seem  to  shrink  in  the  north  wind  and  shiver 
And  wish  it  was  summer  again. 

It's  different  where  you  are,  I  reckon, 

Leastways  from  the  books  it  must  be, 

Where  the  green  hills  of  Italy  beckon 

And  the  Tiber  sings  down  to  the  sea; 

Where  the  red  roses  always  are  climbing 
And  the  air  smells  of  olives  and  pines, 

And  at  evening  the  vesper  bells'  chiming 
Floats  up  toward  the  far  Apennines. 

You  like  it,  no  doubt,  and  you'd  never 
See  beauties  that  nature  can  hold 

Where  the  snow  lies  in  drifts  on  the  river 
And  the  prairies  are  empty  and  cold. 

But  somehow  I  wouldn't  forego  it 

For  all  of  those  soft,  southern  lands. 

I  breathe  it  and  feel  it  and  know  it; 
It  grips  me  as  if  it  had  hands. 

The  stars  in  the  night,  how  they  glisten! 

The  plains  in  the  day,  how  they  spread! 
There's  room  to  stand  up  in,  and  listen, 

And  know  there's  a  God  overhead. 

And  then,  when  the  summer  is  coming 

And  the  cattle  start  out  on  the  trails, 

And  you  hearken  at  dawn  to  the  drumming 
Of  prairie-hens  down  in  the  swales, 

Why,  Italy  simply  ain't  in  it !  — 

But,  Miss,  here  I'm  talking  too  free. 

Excuse  me ;  my  thoughts  for  a  minute 
Got  sort  of  the  better  of  me. 


67 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


It  was  just  about  Christmas  I  started ; 

To  me,  it  was  only  a  name 
Till  that  day  when  we  met,  talked  and  parted, 

But  since  it  has  not  been  the  same. 

For  you  gave  me  a  new  kind  of  notion 
Of  the  countries  and  people  and  such 

On  the  trails  that  lie  over  the  ocean  — 
I  guess  we  don't  differ  so  much. 

And  Christmas  is  chuck  full  of  spirit 
That  everywhere  under  the  sun 

Warms  up  anyone  who  comes  near  it 

And  fills  them  with  good-will  and  fun. 

So  I  want  you  to  know  from  this  letter 

That  the  time  by  the  train  wreck  with  you 

Made  me  know  all  humanity  better 

And  like  the  whole  bunch  better,  too. 

And  I  hope,  if  it  seems  like  presuming 
That  a  letter  shall  come  to  your  door 

In  the  land  where  the  roses  are  blooming 
From  me,  on  the  Tongue's  icy  shore, 

You'll  forgive,  Miss,  an  uncultured  party 
In  the  spirit  of  Christmas,  and  take 

These  thanks  and  good  wishes,  all  hearty, 
From 

Your  most  sincere 

CHEYENNE  JAKE. 


68 


PRAIRIE        SONG 


w 


THE   COYOTEVILLE  PEACE  MEETING 

E  held  a  peace  convention  in  Coyoteville  last  night, 
A  reg'lar  Haygue  Tribunal  fer  order,  law,  an'  right, 
Fer  we'd  about  concluded  that  fightin'  come  too  free 
An'  municipal  conditions  wasn't  all  they  ought  to  be. 

"Dad"  Sykes  had  been  to  Denver  an'  Blake  to  Omaha, 
An'  they  come  back  a-preachin'  of  the  sights  which  they  had  saw, 
How  no  one  carried  weepons  an'  folks  was  nice  an'  mild, 
An',  compared  with  them  there  cities,  Coyoteville  was  wild. 

In  Coyoteville  the  habit  of  some  gentlemen  at  nights, 

If  they  felt  in  pleasant  spirits,  was  to  puncture  out  the  lights. 

Also,  in  questions  dealin'  with  a  social  poker  game 

They  was  prone  to  draw  their  irons  an'  argue  with  the  same. 

All  which,  from   "Dad"   Sykes'  view-point,  an'   likewise   Mister 

Blake's, 

Was  morally  pervertin'  an'  the  biggest  of  mistakes, 
Since  Coyoteville's  best  people  had  begun  a-takin'  pride 
In  makin'  her  the  model  of  the  cattle-countryside. 

Therefore,  we  held  a  meetin'  in  the  Frou-Frou  Dancin'  Hall; 
"Dad"  Sykes  he  played  first  fiddle  an'  Blake  was  there  to  call  — 
I  mean  that  Sykes  persided  an'  Billy  wrote  it  down 
When  motions  was  perpounded  on  how  to  run  the  town. 

"Bat"  Blarcum  broached  the  idee,  supported  by  a  speech, 

That  the  closin'   of  the   thirst-joints  was  the  only  thing  would 

reach, 

Since  liquor  bred  dissension  which  only  blood  could  stop 
As  he  knew  from  observation,  though  he  "never  touched  a  drop!" 

Then  Pierpont  Robyn  Stebbins  arose  an'  begged  to  say 
That  the  road  to  civic  virtue  lay  quite  another  way; 
To  punish  weepon  toters  would  be  the  proper  feat  — 
Jest  confiscate  their  weepons  an'  make  'em  clean  the  street. 

But  Bobby  Earl  was  doubtful  of  Pierpont  Robyn's  plan; 
He  thought  that  cleaning  roadways  would  humiliate  a  man. 

69 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

"Bat"  Blarcum  felt  as  Earl  did,  an'  inferred  that  Stebbins'  scheme 
Was  degenerate  an'  Eastern  an'  an  iridescent  dream. 

Then  Pierpont  stood  up  coldly  an'  stated  to  the  Chair 
That  Mister  Earl's  opinions  would  be  weighty  anywhere, 
Therefore  he  meekly  yielded,  lest  he  be  crushed  indeed 
By  the  most  substantial  leader  of  the  law  an'  order  creed. 

Now  Bobby  weighed  three  hundred  an'  it  somewhat  nettled  him 
To  be  ridiculed  in  public  there  by  Stebbins,  who  was  slim, 
But   the    Chairman   wouldn't   hear   him   till   Pierpont's    partner, 

Drew, 
Had  made  some  observations  about  "Bat"  Blarcum,  too. 

Which  last,  he  said  he  hated  to  cast  aspersions  'round, 
But  he  felt  "Bat's"  plan  of  action  was  very  far  from  sound, 
An'  he  questioned  these  reformers  whose  reform  was  brought 

about 
Through  a  hate  for  rum  engendered  by  the  Keeley  curin'  route. 

He  finished;  whereat  Bobby  raised  objections  an'  was  pained 
At  the  style  of  Stebbins'  language  —  an'  Bobby  was  sustained. 
Then  Stebbins  said  the  Chairman  might  be  strong  an'  somethin' 

more, 
But  he  dared  not  try  sustainin'  Mister  Earl  down  on  the  floor! 


By  this  time  indications  made  it  plain  to  persons  there 
That  a  spirit  of  contention  was  a-breedin'  in  the  air, 
Fer  Drew  jumped  through  a  window  as  Blarcum  slowly  rose, 
While  Bobby  Earl  was  aimin'  fer  Pierpont  Stebbins'  nose. 

The  other  folks  concluded  it  was  gettin'  time  they  went, 
An'  started  fer  the  doorways  by  unanimous  consent, 
While  the  Chair  came  down  on  Stebbins  regardless  of  the  law, 
An'  Blake  propelled  the  Minutes  at  Mister  Blarcum's  jaw. 

There'll  be  a  bunch  of  fun'rals  in  Coyoteville  today; 
Some  well-known  ex-reformers  in  the  leadin'  parts  will  play; 
An'  Coyoteville's  considerin'  this  lesson  o'er  an'  o'er, 
That  peace  may  have  its  battles  as  well,  sometimes,  as  war. 

70 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WINCHESTER 

heir  to  the  twist-bored  yager  gun  with  its  half-inch  slug,  I 
stand ; 

His  rest  was  the  Forty-niner's  arm,  as  mine  is  the  sportsman's 
hand. 

I  am  king  of  my  day  as  he  of  his,  from  the  swamp  to  the  saw- 
backed  spur, 

And  there's  never  a  trail  but  has  heard  the  hail  of  the  ringing 
Winchester! 

I've  saved   the   leaguered   wagon-train  from   the   scalping-knife 

and  stake; 
I  have  held  the  lead  through  the  blind  stampede  in  the  bison's 

dust-dimmed  wake; 

71 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

By  the  reeking  dives  of  the  placer  camp  I  have  killed  for  a  care 
less  jest, 

And  I've  raped  the  loot  from  the  stage-coach  boot  at  the  bandit's 
stern  behest. 


Away  in  the  dusk  of  the  Arctic  night,  where  the  frozen  rivers 

flow 
And  the  fringed  aurora  floods  and  fades  on  the  endless  fields  of 

snow, 

The  hardy  hunters  trust  my  sights  and  my  spinning  bullet's  speed 
When  they  seek  the  lair  of  the  great  white  bear  or  the  haunt  of 

the  gray  wolf's  breed. 

The  steaming  glades  of  the  Amazon,  where  the  crouching  jaguar 
springs, 

Have  felt  the  breath  of  the  whirring  death  my  long-necked  cart 
ridge  brings, 

And  the  wind-whipped  crests  where  the  condor  nests  on  the  roof- 
ribs  of  the  world 

Have  marked  the  thin,  blue  jet  of  smoke  from  my  flashing  muzzle 
hurled. 


Oh,  I  am  the  mate  of  the  deep-lunged  men,  stout  son  of  a  martial 
line, 

From  Uruguay  to  the  Kootenay,  from  mangrove-reef  to  pine; 

In  the  throbbing  glare  of  the  desert  air,  by  the  rocks  where  the 
rapids  purr, 

There  is  never  a  gun  for  fight  or  fun  like  the  steel-blue  Win 
chester  ! 


72 


PRAIRIE  SONGS 


O 


VER  the  lonely  prairie 
The  autumn  twilight  dies; 
Quick,  fitful  winds  through  the  hollows  pass 
That  moan  and  sigh  in  the  long,  dry  grass, 

And  ever  a  kildee  cries. 
The  hovering  darkness  gathers; 

But  what  is  the  rose  tint  there, 
That  flushes  the  far  horizon 

Like  a  turbulent  city's  glare? 

It  gathers  and  grows  and  widens, 

It  swallows  the  southward  sky 
And  the  timid  wind,  like  a  hunted  deer, 
Makes  pause  to  hearken,  then  leaps  in  fear 

And  wails  as  it  hurries  by. 
The  heavens  glow  red  to  the  zenith 

In  the  ominous,  fevered  light, 
And  the  glimmering  hilltops  waver, 

Sharp-drawn   on   the   walls   of  night. 

And  now,  as  a  wide-flung   army, 

Hurled  hot  on  the  foemen's  spears, 
With  plumes  of  smoke  on  its  tossing  head, 
With  flaring  banners  and  lances  red, 

The  wavering  flood  appears. 
It  runs  like  a  wolf  in  hunger, 

It  roars  like  a  mountain  storm, 
And  before  it  the  fleeing  creatures 

Far  over  the  prairie  swarm. 

Pigeon  and  grouse  and  plover, 

The  air  is  alive  with  wings, 

And  the  firm  ground  shakes  with  the  pounding  feet 
Of  bellowing  bison  in  mad  retreat 

And  the  panic  of  smaller  things. 
Behind  them  the  flames  speed  onward 

O'er  level  and  slope  and  swale, 
And  the  grass  is  melted  to  embers, 

Whirled  high  on  the  parching  gale. 

73 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

As  strong  as  the  ocean's  billows, 

As  fierce  as  the  blizzard's  breath, 
Is  aught  in  Nature  that  may  withstand 
The  league-long  sweep  of  this  scorching  brand 

That  clutters  the  plains  with  death? 
Ahead  is  a  waiting  darkness, 

A   shadow  athwart   the   glare, 
And  the  wild  things  have  turned  them  to  it, 

For  they  know  there  is  safety  there. 

The  river,  at  last,  the  river! 

A  haven  where  all  may  hide. 
With  toil-spent  lungs  and  with  straining  feet 
They  reel  from  the  smoke  and  the  peeling  heat 

To  plunge  in  its  grateful  tide, 
While  the  tongue  of  the  hungry  demon 

Licks  out  on  the  naked  sand, 
And  slavers  its  baffled  fury 

And  sinks,  like  a  dying  hand. 

Over  the   lonely  prairie 

So  wan,  the  white  moonrise  grows; 
From  out  of  the  North  a  chill  wind  rides 
That  spins  the  ash  on  the  black  hillsides 

And,  fading,  an  ember  glows. 
The  clustered  diamonds  of  midnight 

Flash  keen  in  the  purple  deep, 
The  hollows  and  hills  are  empty; 

The  desolate  prairies  sleep. 


74 


Ill 
RIVER   SONGS 


Ill 

RIVER   SONGS 

THE  MISSOURI 

WHEN  the  hollow  void  of  Chaos 
By  the  sun's  first  flame  was  lit, 
And  morning  kissed  the  new  earth's  leaden  sky, 
When  the  hand  of  God  reached  downward 
To  the  ocean's  utmost  pit 
And  reared  the  ragged  continents  on  high, 

From  the  naked,  dripping  ranges 

Of  the  Rocky's  granite  sweep, 
In  a  pathway  through  the  quaking  mud-plains  torn, 

Surged  a  waste  of  briny  waters, 

Roaring  backward  to  the  deep, 
And  the  great  Missouri,  king  of  floods,  was  born. 

It  was  there  when,  dank  and  noisome, 

On  the  primal  beds  of  shale 
The  fern  and  cycad  forests  fringed  its  shore, 

And  its  depths  have  heaved  in  whirlpools 

To  the  thresh  of  fin  and  tail 
As  the  monster  sea-snakes  closed  in  deadly  war. 

Foot  by  foot  through  crumbling  valleys 

It  has  fought  the  Glacial  Drift 
As  from  out  the  North  the  rock-fanged  moraines  spread, 

Hurling  seas  of  thunderous  waters 

Through   the   slowly   strangling  rift 
Where  the  ice-floes  ground  and  gritted  in  its  bed. 

77 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Huge  of  limb  and  tusked  like  tree-trunks, 

When  the  evening  sun  hung  low 
Slugged  the  mammoths  down  to  gambol  in  its  tide, 

And  'twas  there  that,  ringed  and  goaded 

By  the  cave-men's  spears  and  bows, 
They  fell  in  blinded  agony  and  died. 

So,  for  dim,  uncounted  aeons 

Did  the  torrent  sweep  along, 
Rolling  centuries  like  pebbles  in  its  sands, 

And  the  prairies  sprung  and  blossomed 

And  the  bison  herds  grew  strong, 
And  the  red  men  camped  and  hunted  through  its  lands. 

Till  there  came  at  last  a  season 

When  a  gaunt-limbed  figure  burst 
Through  the  woods  that  lipped  the  current's  whirling  foam, 

And  the  flint-lock  that  he  shifted 

As  he  stooped  to  quench  his  thirst 
Told  the  wilderness  the  first  white  man  was  come ! 

He,  the  white  man,  the  magician, 

Searcher,  soldier,  settler,  lord, 
Heir  to  all  the  crusted  cycles  of  the  past! 

What  were  endless,  lagging  eras 

While  earth's  wealth  was  being  stored 
To  the  pageant  of  his  power  at  the  last? 

Came  new  visions  to  the  river; 

Came  the  voyageur's  swift  canoe, 
Gliding  ghost-like  to  the  silent,  dipping  oar; 

And  the  blunt-bowed  keel-boat  harnessed 

To  its  brawny,  sweating  crew, 
As  they  trailed  the  long  cordelle-rope  up  the  shore. 

Came  the  block-house  of  the  fur-trade, 

Where  the  trappers  brought  their  spoil 
From  bison-range  and  log-laced  beaver  fall; 

French  and  half-breed,  Sioux  and  Yankee, 

Flinging  out  a  season's  toil 
For  a  week  of  drunken  revelry  and  brawl. 

78 


RIVER         SONGS 

Up  the  swinging,  bluff-bound  reaches 

Where  the  lonely  bittern  boomed 
Throbbed  a  dull,  insistent  whisper,  growing  strong, 

As  the  steamboat,  flame-winged  herald 

To  an  age  forespent  and  doomed, 
Waked  the  woodlands  with  its  piston's  pulsing  song. 

Reeling  down  the  rain-washed  gullies 

To  its  fertile,  grassy  vales 
The  Missouri  saw  the  weary  ox-teams  plod ; 

Saw  the  red  scouts  on  the  ridges, 

Heard  the  shots  and  dying  wails, 
Knew  the  unmarked  graves  beneath  the  prairie  sod. 

It  has  watched  the  thin,  gray  dust-cloud 

With  the  summer  heat-haze  blent, 
And  the  glint  below  of  swords  and  bridle-chains, 

As  some  squad  of  blue-clad  troopers, 

Like  a  wolf-pack  on  the  scent, 
Trailed  the  fleeing  travois'  track  across  the  plains. 

It  has  seen  the  long-horned  cattle 

Take  the  bisons'  pasture  lands, 
Seen  the  cornfields  spread  where  once  the  wild  grass  stood, 

Marked  the  railroad  bind  the  prairies, 

League  by  league,  with  iron  bands, 
Felt  the  dizzy  bridge-span  leap  its  own  dark  flood. 

Till  the  cow-town's  rutted  roadways 

Into  asphalt  pavements  grew. 
By  wires  webbed  and  busy  markets  walled, 

And  the  steel-trussed  office  building 

Reared  its  cornice  to  the  blue 
Where  the  shanties  of  the  mining  camp  had  sprawled. 

Now  the  hissing,  rock-jammed  rapids 

Where  of  yore  the  fish-hawks  bred, 
Hear  the  thirsty  turbines  mumble  in  the  gorge, 

Tearing  twice  ten  thousand  horse-power 

From  the  prisoned  waters'  head 
To  drive  the  distant  smelter,  mill  and  forge, 

79 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Now  lakes  of  water  ripple 

Where  before  the  sands  lay  dry, 
And  beyond  the  concrete  walls  which  hold  them  caged — 

Run  shimmering,   silver  channels 

Through  fields  of  wheat  and  rye 
Where  yesterday  the  searing  sand-storm  raged. 

But  splendid  though  the  epic 

Of  the  river's  wondrous  past 
As  Homer  e'er  could  sing  or  Milton  pen, 

It  will  know  its  grandest  numbers 

In  the  ages  yet  uncast 
When  its  worth  shall  yield  full  measure  unto  men. 

In  this  storehouse  of  the  Nations, 

Where  but  thousands  prosper  now, 
The  homes  of  teeming  millions  soon  shall  be; 

On  this  noble  waste  of  waters, 

Untouched  by  steamer's  prow, 
Shall  roll  a  people's  commerce  toward  the  sea. 

Unto  us  and  to  our  children 

Will  be  dealt  the  untold  gains 
If,  shaping  Nature's  promise  into  deeds, 

We  accept  the  willing  service 

Of  this  Titan  of  the  plains 
And  compel  its  mighty  muscles  to  our  needs, 

Till  its  flood  runs  deep  and  constant 

To  the  Mississippi's  tide, 
And  the  wedded  torrents  down  the  South  are  hurled, 

Pouring  forth  their  fleets  of  plenty 

O'er  oceans  far  and  wide 
To  bear  our  country's  riches  to  the  world. 


80 


R       I 


V        E 


R 


O        N 


THE  OLD  CARRY 


(Near  the  mouth  of  the  Missouri  River  is  a  narrow  tongue  of  land 
between  that  stream  and  the  Mississippi  over  which  the  Sioux  Indians, 
on  their  expeditions  in  early  days,  were  accustomed  to  transport  their 
goods  and  boats  in  order  to  avoid  the  long  journey  around  the  point  by 
water.  Hence  the  locality  received  its  name,  Portage  des  Sioux.) 


R 


OUND  by  tawny,  foam-lipp'd  streams, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
In  thy  name  what  romance  dreams, 

Portage  des  Sioux! 
But  thy  trails,  once  deep  and  worn, 
Now  lie  gulfed  in  rustling  corn, 
And  thy  forest  depths  are  shorn, 

Portage  des  Sioux. 


81 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Where  are  all  the  dusky  feet, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
Trod  thy  pathways  like  a  street, 

Portage  des  Sioux? 
Nevermore  thy  vales  shall  know 
Flash  of  spear  and  twang  of  bow, 
Nor  the  evening  camp-fire's  glow, 

Portage  des  Sioux. 

Yet  when  summer  moonlight  falls, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
On  thy  glades  and  forest  walls, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
Phantom  figures  seem  to  go 
'Neath  the  branches  bending  low, 
Moccasined  and  pacing  slow, 

Portage  des  Sioux. 

And  the  hoot-owl's  mournful  rune, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
Quavers  toward  the  sailing  moon, 

Portage  des  Sioux, 
While,  where  shore  and  river  meet, 
Sob  the  waves  with  pulsing  feet 
Like  a  tom-tom's  dying  beat, 

Portage  des  Sioux. 


82 


RIVER         SONG 


w 


JAKE  DALE 

HAT,  stranger,  you  never  heerd  tell  o'  Jake, 

Jake  Dale,  o'  the  "Lucky  George"? 
You  must  'a'  been  raised  in  the  East,  my  son, 
If  you  never  clapped  ears  to  the  yarn  that's  spun 
Of  Jakey  Dale  an'  the  race  he  won 
In  the  year  o'  the  big  ice  gorge. 


Come  March  in  the  Spring  o'  '81, 

An'  the  river  broke  at  Pierre 
An'  come  rantin'  down  on  the  clean  rampage. 
She  marked  36  on  the  Yankton  gauge, 
Which  I  reckon  you  know  is  some  of  a  stage, 

An'  she  covered  the  bottoms  here. 


The  "George"  was  hitched  on  the  city  bar 
Close  up  by  the  railroad  track. 

When  the  row  began  we  fixed  her  strong, 

Rigged  seven  hawsers  where  two  belong; 

She'd  'a'  taken  an  acre  o'  soil  along 

If  she'd  dragged  in  the  grindin'  pack. 


But  along  one  night  the  drift-ice  stopped; 

The  flood  run  clear  as  June, 
Fer  the  stuff  had  jammed  in  Hagin's  Bend 
An'  choked  the  channel  from  end  to  end, 
An'  it  fought  an'  screamed  like  a  wild-cat,  penned, 

In  the  light  o'  the  cold  March  moon. 


Yeh  see  that  p'int  acrost  the  bar 

With  the  riffle  o'  shoal  below? 
Well,  that's  where  the  widow  o'  old  Buck  Slack 
Oncet  had  a  claim  an'  a  drift-wood  shack, 
Where  she  lived  an'  slaved  with  her  young-un  pack, 

All  which  was  some  time  ago. 


83 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


Well,  we  on  the  "George"  had  tumbled  out  — 

The  roar  o'  the  jam  was  wild  — 
When  we  heerd  a  cry  through  the  shriekin'  night, 
An'  there  on  the  p'int,  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
A-wavin'  an'  yellin'  with  all  her  might, 

Stood  Buck  Slack's  youngest  child. 

An'  we  knowed,  without  darin'  to  say  the  word, 
They  was  tripped  fer  the  Great  Unknown, 
Fer  the  gorge  had  slapped  the  current  round 
An'  cut  'em  off  from  the  higher  ground, 
An'  the  hand  that  could  save  'em  from  bein'  drowned 
Was  the  hand  of  God  alone. 

Then  all  at  oncet  we  heerd  a  yell 

An',  down  'cross  the  willow  bank, 
A-layin'  a  course  that  was  skeercely  snug, 
Came  Jakey  Dale  with  his  whiskey  jug, 
As  drunk  as  the  mate  of  a  log-raft  tug, 
An'  a-swearin'  somethin'  rank. 

"You  rust-chawed  fragments  o'  junk,"  sez  he, 
"Now  what  do  you  think  you've  found? 

A-standin'  'round  on  this  old  bilge  tank 

Like  a  bunch  o'  frogs  on  a  floatin'  plank; 

Be  ye  lookin'  fer  gold  in  yon  cut-bank?" 
An'  then  he  heerd  that  sound. 

As  quick  as  the  jump  of  a  piston-rod 

He  was  over  the  wheel-box  guard, 
An'  before  we  could  figger  on  stoppin'  him 
He  had  slashed  the  falls  from  the  long-boat's  rim 
An'  was  out  past  the  slush  o'  the  channel's  brim, 
A-pullin'  quick  an'  hard. 

He  sidled  his  tub  through  that  rippin'  flume 

While  we  stood  on  the  "George"  an'  swore. 

The  boy  was  loony  with  raw-corn  gin, 

But  he  reckoned  his  course  to  the  width  of  a  pin, 

Ran  straight  to  the  eddy  an'  clawed  her  in, 
An*  staggered  himself  ashore. 

84 


RIVER         SONG 


Now,  stranger,  I  want  to  ask  you,  flat, 
If  a  man  with  his  head-piece  right, 
Would  'a'  piled  eight  folks  in  that  skiff's  inside 
Fer  a  half-mile  pull  through  that  mill-race  tide 
An'  think  to  land  safe  at  the  end  o'  the  ride? 
Well,  Jake  Dale  did,  that  night. 

When  he  shoved  her  off  from  the  gumbo  p'int 

She  reeled  like  a  sawyer  snag, 
Then  the  current  caught  her  along  the  beam 
An'  she  whirled  around  an'  shot  down  stream 
With  the  foam  from  her  bow  like  a  cloud  o'  steam, 

As  fast  as  a  red-tail  stag. 

Good  Lord,  the  fright  in  them  children's  cries! 

It  curdled  a  feller's  blood, 
Them  river  men  ain't  a  prayerful  race, 
But  that  night  more'n  one  sort  o'  hid  his  face 
An'  sent  up  a  plea  to  the  Throne  o'  Grace 

To  guide  them  through  the  flood. 

An'  then  that  gorge  sent  up  a  roar 

That  shook  the  solid  ground ; 
The  sort  that  splits  yer  ears  in  two 
When  a  side-wheel  packet  drops  a  flue 
An'  blows  six  b'ilers  amongst  her  crew, 

An'  cooks  them  that  ain't  drowned. 

She  was  breakin'  loose  like  an  avalanche, 

Slipped  free  on  a  mountain  side. 
Jake  Dale  turned  'round  an'  give  one  look 
An'  read  the  truth  like  a  printed  book, 
Then  bent  to  his  oars  till  the  keel-post  shook, 

An'  pulled  fer  the  "George's"  side. 

He  jammed  her  bow  through  the  buckin'  tide 

Till  the  painter  floated  free; 
With  blinded  eyes  an'  drippin'  skin 
He  fought  fer  the  race  he  had  set  to  win 
Like  a  soldier  fights,  till  the  ice  rolled  in 

An'  ground  against  her  lee. 

85 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

But  he'd  got  her  up  to  ropin'  range 

An'  we  hauled  her  to  the  rail. 
When  he'd  landed  the  last  one,  safe  an'  sound, 
Jake  follered,  an'  says,  as  he  looked  around, 
"You  fellers  fetch  out  that  jug  you  found, 

I'm  as  dry  as  the  Mormon  Trail!" 

Well,  stranger,  that  there  is  the  yarn  o'  Jake, 

Jake  Dale,  o'  the  "Lucky  George." 
He  wasn't  no  saint  with  a  gilt-edged  crown ; 
His  language  would  shatter  a  church-steeple  down; 
He'd  a  thirst  in  his  throat  that  nothin'  could  drown, 

An'  a  fist  like  a  blacksmith's  forge. 

But,  all  the  same,  he'd  a  Christian  soul 

If  he  hadn't  the  Christian  creed, 
An'  a  better  heart,  by  a  blame  long  shot, 
Than  some  pious  folks  that  brag  a  lot 
On  savin'  their  souls,  but  haven't  got 

No  time  fer  their  brother's  need. 

An'  I  reckon  the  Lord  has  found  a  place 

In  the  Kingdom  o'  the  Lamb 
Fer  the  man  that  cast  his  own  fears  by 
An'  showed  that  he  wasn't  afeared  to  die 
Fer  the  sake  of  a  frightened  baby's  cry, 

That  night  o'  the  big  ice  jam. 


86 


RIVER         SONG 


THE  ENGINEER  OF  THE  "GOLDEN  HIND" 

•  LIM  JACK"  BRITT,  of  the  packet  "Golden  Hind," 
|  Runnin'  the  Missouri  'fore  the  railroads  spoiled  the  trade, 

Engineer,  and  a  good  one  of  his  kind, 

Claimed  to  have  no  feelin's ;  'twas  the  only  brag  he  made. 

Come  what  might,  he  didn't  give  a  hang; 

Watch  a  Levee  shootin'  scrape  and  never  turn  a  hair, 
Stand  and  chew  while  some  other  boat  went  bang! 

And  blew  her  decks  and  b'ilers  half  a  mile  up  in  the  air. 

News  of  death  didn't  bother  him, 

Never  showed  no  feelin's  by  word  or  sigh  or  frown. 
Gabr'el's  Trump  wouldn't  worried  Slim, 

He'd  just  hump  his  shoulders  and  screw  a  steam-valve  down. 

Well,  one  day,  out  from  Omaha, 

Way  late  in  November  and  makin'  our  last  run, 
Blizzard  come,  quick  and  thick  and  raw, 

Slim  was  at  the  engines  when  the  storm  begun. 

Boat  chuck  full,  passengers  and  freight, 

Had  to  get  'em  somewhere  'fore  the  freeze-up  brought  us  to, 
So  we  run,  crowdin'  on  the  gait 

And  hopin'  that  a  blind  snag  wouldn't  rip  our  bottom  through. 

All  at  once  a  woman  screamed  aloud  — 

"Men,  the  boat's  on  fire !     For  God's  sake,  run  ashore !" 
Then,  of  course,  panic  in  the  crowd, 

Shrieks  and  groans  and  curses  and  the  fire's  growin'  roar. 

Down  below,  'round  the  fires  there 

Crew  all  took  the  fever,  run  up  front  and  prayed  — 
All  but  Slim.     He  didn't  seem  to  care; 

Didn't  have  no  feelin's  and  so  he  stayed. 

87 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

Pilot  yelled  through  the  speakin'  tube, — 

"Can  you  keep  the  paddles  goin'  while  I  make  a  landin', 

Jack?" 
"Blamed  hot  here,  but  I'll  mind  yer  signals,  Rube; 

I  ain't  got  no  feelin's,"  was  all  Slim  hollered  back. 

Through  the  roof,  down  the  fire  came 

While  he  worked  his  levers,  blisterin'  like  tar, 

Blind  and  black,  stickin'  to  the  game 

Till  she'd  made  her  landin',  broad  against  the  bar. 

Someone  then  jumped  across  the  side, 

Dragged  him  from  the  fire  and  toted  him  ashore. 

Might  as  well  just  have  let  it  slide; 

Slim  was  done  with  engines  for  good  and  evermore. 

But  he  spoke,  just  'fore  he  got  through, 

Lookin'  at  the  people  in  a  .sort  o'  mild  surprise  — 

"Don't  thank  me,  and  don't  be  sorry,  too  — 

I  ain't  got  no  feelin's,"  said  Slim,  and  closed  his  eyes. 


88 


R 


V        E 


R 


O        N 


A 


THE  "PAULINE" 

MISSOURI  tramp  was  the  boat  "Pauline" 

An'  she  ran  in  '78; 

She  was  warped  in  the  hull  an'  broad  o'  beam, 
An'  her  engines  sizzled  with  wastin'  steam, 
An'  a  three-mile  jog  against  the  stream 

Was  her  average  runnin'  gait. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  rickety  "Pauline"  maid, 
The  rottenest  raft  in  the  Bismarck  trade, 

An'  her  captain  an'  her  mate. 

The  new  "North  Queen"  come  up  in  June, 

Fresh  launched   from   the   Saint   Joe  ways, 
As  speedy  a  craft  as  the  river'd  float  — 
She  could  buck  the  bends  like  a  big-horn  goat  — 
An'  she  hauled  astern  o'  that  "Pauline"  boat 

On  one  o'  them  nice  spring  days. 
Sing  ho !  fer  the  "Pauline,"  puffin'  hard, 
With  her  captain  up  on  the  starboard  guard, 
A-watchin'  the  "North  Queen"  raise. 

89 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 

The  "Queen,"  she  drew  to  the  "Pauline's"  wheel 

An'  her  captain  come  a-bow; 
"I'll  give  yen  three  miles  the  lead,"  says  he, 
"An'  beat  yeh  at  that  into  Old  Santee." 
"Come  on,"  says  the  "Pauline's"  chief,  "an'  see! 

I'm  a-waitin'  fer  yeh  now." 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  captains,  grim  an'  white 
With  the  smothered  hate  of  an  old-time  fight 

An'  the  chance  fer  a  new-time  row. 

So  the  sassy  "Queen"  strung  out  behind 

An'  let  the  distance  spread, 
Till  the  "Pauline"  headed  Ackley's  Bend 
An'  herself  come  in  at  the  lower  end; 
Then  her  slow-bell  speed  begun  to  mend 

Fer  the  space  that  the  old  boat  led. 
Sing  ho !  fer  the  clerks  an'  the  engineers 
A-swabbin'  the  grease  on  the  runnin'  gears 

An'  settin'  the  stroke  ahead. 

Puff-puff!  they  went  by  the  flat  sand-bars, 

Chug-chug!  where  the  currents  spun, 
An'  the  "Pauline's"  stokers  were  not  to  blame 
Fer  her  tall,  black  stacks  were  spoutin'  flame, 
But  the  "Queen"  crawled  up  on  her,  just  the  same, 

Two  miles  to  the  "Pauline's"  one. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  steam-chest's  poundin'  cough, 
A-shakin'  the  nuts  o'  the  guy-rods  off 

To  the  beat  o'  the  piston's  run. 

The  "Queen"  pulled  up  on  the  old  boat's  beam 

At  the  mouth  o'  Chouteau  Creek, 
An'  the  "Pauline's"  captain  stamped  an'  swore, 
Fer  the  wood  bulged  out  o'  the  furnace  door, 
An'  the  steam-gauge  hissed  with  the  load  it  bore, 

But  she  couldn't  do  the  trick. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  pilot  at  the  wheel 
A-shavin'  the  shoals  on  a  twelve-inch  keel, 
Enough  to  scare  yeh  sick. 

90 


RIVER         SONG 

The  "Queen"  was  doin'  her  level  best 
An'  she  wasn't  leadin'  far  — 
Per  the  "Pauline"  stuck  like  a  barber's  leech  — 
But  she  let  her  siren  whistle  screech 
When  she  led  the  way  into  Dodson's  Reach, 

Three  miles  from  Santee  Bar. 
Sing  ho !  fer  the  "Pauline's"  roustabout 
A-rollin'  the  Bismarck  cargo  out, 

Big  barrels  o'  black  pine  tar. 

The  "Pauline's"  chief  was  a  sight  to  see 

As  he  stood  on  the  swingin'  stage. 
"I'll  beat  that  pop-eyed  levee-rat 
If  he  banks  his  fires  with  bacon  fat; 
Pile  in  that  tar  an'  let  her  scat 

An'  never  mind  the  gauge!" 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  boilers  singein'  red 
An'  the  black   smoke   vomitin'   overhead 
From  the  furnace'   flamin'  rage. 

An'  she  gained,  that  rattle-trap  mud-scow  did, 
While  her  wake  got  white  with  spray, 
An'  forty  rods  from  the  landin'-plank 
Her  bow  was  a-beam  o'  the  "North  Queen's"  flank 
An'  her  pilot  rushin'  her  fer  the  bank 

To  block  the  "North  Queen's"  way. 
Sing  ho !  fer  the  boilers'  burstin'  roar 
As  they  hurl  them  loose  from  the  splittin'  floor, 
An'  tear  the  decks  away. 

But  the  captain  bold  of  the  ex-"Pauline," 

He  didn't  stop  a  bit, 

Fer  he  flew  with  the  wreckage  through  the  air 
An'  fell  on  the  landin',  fair  an'  square, 
An'  the  "Queen"  run  in  an'  found  him  there, 

R'ared  up  from  where  he'd  lit. 
An'  he  yelled:    "You  rouster,  I've  won  the  race! 
Go  git  a  boat  that  can  keep  my  pace, 

Yer  'North  Queen'  doesn't  fit!" 


91 


FRONTIER      BALLADS 


T 


AFTERGLOW 
(On  the  Missouri) 

WILIGHT  on  the  river,  summer  everywhere, 
Prairie  flowers  perfuming  the  warm  June  air, 
Breezes  stirring  softly  on  the  high  bluff's  crest 
Where  stand  a  lad  and  maiden,  looking  toward  the  West. 

Just  a  lad  and  maiden,  standing,  hand  in  hand, 
While  the  lights  are  fading  from  the  sunset's  fairyland, 
While  on  butte  and  buttress  dies  the  crimson  afterglow 
And  the  mists  creep  upward  from  the  river  far  below. 

Down  there  in  the  valley  house  lights  twinkle  out, 
Homeward-wending  cattle  low,  laughing  children  shout, 
While  those  two  stand  dreaming  of  another  home  to  be, 
Close  beside  the  river,  slipping  swiftly  toward  the  sea. 

O,  thou  broad,  strong  river,  rolling  from  the  North, 
Dost  thou,  too,  see  visions,  from  the  centuries  spun  forth? 
See  a  lad  and  maiden  in  some  summer  long  ago 
Gazing  from  the  hilltop  on  the  shadowed  vale  below? 

Dusky,  slender  lovers,  clasping  hand  in  hand 
While  the  tepee  fires  flicker  down  there  on  the  strand  — 
Wild,  unconquered  children  of  the  forest  and  the  plain, 
Dreaming,  softly  dreaming  that  same  old  dream  again! 

River  of  the  Northland,  in  thy  banks  of  living  green, 
Many  are  the  visions  that  thy  changing  tides  have  seen, 
Yet  they  came  and  vanished  with  Time's  ceaseless  onward  flow, 
Grew  and  bloomed  and  faded  like  the  sunset's  afterglow. 

Only  this  was  changeless  in  the  centuries  agone, 

Only  this  will  change  not  as  the  countless  years  speed  on; 

Ever  to  the  hilltop,  looking  westward  o'er  the  land 

Will  come  some  lad  and  maiden,  dreaming,  hand  in  hand ; 

In  the  twilight  dreaming  of  a  happy  home  to  be 
Beside  thy  restless  waters,  sweeping  silent  toward  the  sea, 
Ever  in  the  gloaming  while  time  shall  ebb  and  flow 
Love  will  build  its  castles  in  the  crimson  afterglow. 

92 


r> 


£H 
Ol 


A    000  J?7™ 


JCXTEPM 


HANSON 


\ 

'f.*4 


